Jordan

[Oneillfranko]

Such a great story, with the different interwoven plots

[Crushing]

"Hey, kid…Hand me that gasket scraper…"

"Right here…"

Thirteen year old David Stark stood in the mechanic's bay of A1 Star Motors, a car lot his father had recently acquired. A shrewd businessman, Ricky Stark had managed to triple the size of his business in the past few years by purchasing two failing car lots in two nearby towns. A1 happened to be a mile away from the Stark home, and David had stopped by on his way home from school.

He handed the tool to an old mechanic named Frank, who groaned as he bent over an open engine compartment.

"Thanks kid…"

Frank had come with the dealership in the buyout. A holdover through multiple owners, Frank simply didn't want to retire.

David tried to inconspicuously lean over Frank while Frank leaned over the ten year old Chevy Silverado, a new-old acquisition that had found its way onto the lot earlier that week.

"If you're gonna hang around, shouldn't you be cleaning something?" Frank muttered without looking up.

"I swept the bays and cleaned all the tools. I wanted to organize the tools too, but my dad said don't bother. Since it would probably mess you guys up."

"Is that what he said?"

"Well, not exactly. He said not to fuck with your tools or I'll fuck up your work and then everything will be fucked and go to hell and the lot will close and we'll be homeless."

"That sounds more like your dad."

"Yeah."

David stood silently, watching the older man work. "Can I ask what you're working on?"

"Just swapping out some older minor components, putting on a new belt, new filters, some basic stuff."

"Is that all it needs to be fixed?"

Frank laughed. "Hell no. This rust bucket's been driven into the ground. But we don't make money doing it right. We make money doing it fast. Quick fix, clean it, put it on the lot and sell it to whoever will buy it."

David nodded. "But if it's still mostly broken, who will buy it?"

"Hopefully nobody who needs their car to last for long…" Frank muttered. He stood up and set a handful of miscellaneous nuts, bolts, and other odd fittings in a tray while dropping the old, oily, and cracked gaskets in a trash can.

"Want me to clean those parts?" David volunteered. "I can do it real quick."

Frank shrugged. "Sure, kid. Knock yourself out. If you can clean them before I get the rest of these off, why not?"

David scooped up the handful of bolts and fittings and ran over to an empty table. He grabbed a rag, a brush, and some cleaner and went quickly to work, finishing just as Frank dumped the next handful onto the tray.

"Not bad. Thanks."

They built a two-man assembly line, David laughing at the game as he scuttled back and forth dropping off clean parts and picking up dirty ones, scrambling to keep ahead of the older man's process.

Frank was beginning to like the youngster's pep.

"Shouldn't you have a girlfriend or something? What are you doing here?"

"No. I mean, I don't," David explained. "I don't know, really. My best friend was a girl, but she moved last year. Her dad's in the military, so her family moves around a lot. But I think all the other girls think I'm weird. They like the sports guys."

Frank chuckled. "Well, maybe you'll grow out of the weird phase. I'm just surprised to see you here. This lot's had 5 owners in the last twenty years. But I've never seen the owner's son hang around the shop before."

"My dad doesn't want me at home by myself when my mom's sick. So I come here."

"Fair enough. Grab me that 9/16 socket, will you?"

David handed him the tool. "Can you teach me about engines? I like to know how things work."

Frank grunted again. "As long as you don't slow me down, I'll walk you through stuff."

"Okay. I won't slow you down. I can clean stuff for you. Maybe it'll go faster with the two of us. I can organize the shop too. I'm good at that stuff."

"Don't go nuts, kid. I want to be able to find stuff." Frank stood up again. "Now grab that fan belt, I'll show you how it fits over all the pulleys. Then we'll see if you've got enough torque in those skinny arms to adjust it."

David nodded, grabbing the part off the table. "Okay…"

* * *

"Excuse me."

"Excuse me…."

"Excuse me, young man…"

In the back corner of a second grade classroom in El Paso, Texas, a paperback book wrapped in library plastic dropped with an audible crinkle to reveal a bewildered brown face framed with scraggly long hair. Although not intentional, the haircut came dangerously close to mullet territory.

The lad looked wide eyed up into the stern face of his teacher.

"It's not reading time, Mark. We're doing our math worksheets now."

"But I finished my worksheet, Miss Ramirez…"

"Let me see."

The boy sheepishly slid a piece of paper across his desk to reveal a filled out worksheet. Each question was answered with a neatly drawn number 5.

Miss Ramirez fought back a smile. "Five isn't the answer to every question, Mark. This is for your grade. Try again."

The boy chuffed and set his book down, spine up to hold his place, and began to erase the worksheet and start again.

An hour later, as the bell for recess rang, A skinny but tall-for-his-age Mark Rein ran out the back door of his third grade classroom with the library book tucked inconspicuously under his arm. He stuck close to the school wall, heading toward a small patch of bushes near the playground fence where he wouldn't be spotted.

"Hey Mark! You coming?" A stern but solicitous young voice called out from the basketball court.

He pretended not to hear.

"Mark! Hey!"

He continued to move toward the bushes, unsuccessfully, as he was thwarted by his classmate running over to intercept him.

"Hey Mark. It's three on two right now. Come be on our team. You ready?"

"Yeah, I was just…yeah. I'm coming…" Mark said, feigning agreeability. He slipped his book into his jacket and followed the boy to the paved basketball court. He carefully took his jacket off before stepping onto the court, keeping the book folded away inside so it wouldn't be seen. He then folded his jacket carefully on the ground at the corner of the court and ran to join the game.

He was a few inches taller than the other boys, with wide, gangly arms. Especially at his age, his size was a noticeable advantage, but he was surprisingly graceful. He showed much more ease handling and shooting the ball than the other, smaller boys. As a result, he dominated. Everyone wanted him on their team, and, although he had other interests, once he got playing, his enthusiasm for the game matched everyone else's.

A rogue ball bounced onto Mark's carefully folded jacket, ejecting the library book concealed inside. The book slid out a few inches, exposed in the open at an awkward angle. Mark's eye was nervously drawn toward it as they continued the game, afraid that it would be kicked or stolen.

He didn't want to get in trouble for losing another library book.

But the game continued, his team handily defeating their opponent until the bell rang again. The boys gathered their things to head back to the classroom, but when he went to pick up his jacket, Mark found his classmate Maria holding his library book open.

She had black hair, like him. But she wore it in a long braid. And she had brown eyes. Like him. But she wore glasses.

Mark picked up his jacket and stuck out his hand.

"That's mine."

Maria shyly closed the book and looked down. "I like the Redwall books too. I like the badgers."

Mark was surprised. "I like the badgers too. I've read three Redwall books."

"I've read seven," Maria said proudly, looking up at him.

She wanted to talk more. Mark didn't know what to say.

She was pretty.

He managed to break the ice with characteristic third-grade charm:

"Okay…can I have my book back now?"

Maria's face fell. She bashfully handed the book back and turned to dash away and line up at the door with the class.

Mark walked slowly back, flipping through the book to check for damage.

None. He wouldn't get in trouble again. He watched Maria skip away toward her class.

"Hey, did you get in trouble or something?" One of the boys he was playing basketball with surprised him from behind.

"What?" Mark snapped the book shut and turned to face him.

"That." He said, pointing at the book. "Do you have to do a book report because you got in trouble?"

"Umm…yeah. Yeah, I faked a bunch of answers on my test, so I have to do a book report or I'll get detention."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. Yeah, it sucks."

Mark sheepishly tucked the book under his jacket again and headed to line up with his class just as Miss Ramirez opened the door.

* * *

Jordan slammed David against the backside of their apartment door, hands spread, fingers out and palms flat on his chest.

"Hey baby…"

"Hey…" David responded as his wife leaned forward and attacked him with deep, hungry kisses.

David fumbled his suitcase, dropping it awkwardly and then wrapping his arms behind Jordan's back. She pushed her hands up over his shoulders and clutched him as she pushed her face more and more urgently into his. The back of his head thunked against the recently closed door as her tongue darted into his surprised mouth.

She was breathing heavily. Her hands found the back of his head, cupping it and pulling it further into her embrace.

She moaned as David's hands began exploring her back. The kisses broke for a moment as Jordan reached in between them and began fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

"I missed you too, honey…" David said, smiling.

"Oh, baby, you have no idea…" Jordan panted, pulling his shirt open and slipping her hands up under his white undershirt.

David began kissing her back as her fingers explored his bare chest. His breath had quickened in excitement, and he reached down to the hem of her shirt, pulling it quickly over her head. Jordan eagerly followed the motion with up-raised arms to help her husband disrobe her.

David licked his lips as he watched her hair tumble back down from the neck of her shirt and spread over her bare shoulders.

She leaned back in, kissing him desperately as he rubbed her bare back, his fingers finding the clasp of her bra.

Fiddling with the hooks, he couldn't get it open.

He kept trying. No dice.

With an exasperated chuff, Jordan reached behind herself and unclipped her bra with two fingers, wiggling her shoulders until the garment fell off.

Now topless, Jordan attacked her husband yet again. His palms found her naked breasts, and his fingers caressed the tips of her stiffening nipples. She hummed in delight, not letting their lips part as she grasped the back of his head again. David's hands slipped around her back again, rubbing up and down the smooth surface of her toned musculature, then slipped under the waistband of her jeans and began cupping her buttocks.

Jordan giggled playfully, smiling into her kisses. "Right where you left it, right?"

David chuckled back. "Thank god…"

Jordan kissed him deeply again, then broke the embrace, grabbing his hand and striding purposefully toward the bedroom with her husband in tow.

David was delighted by the welcome.

He was even more surprised by the neat-as-a-pin state of the apartment. Jordan was usually less committed to anal retentive organization and cleanliness. She clearly cleaned before he came home.

They walked into the bedroom, and Jordan sat down on the bed, rolling onto her back and quickly shucking her pants and panties down her legs.

"Is it hot in here?" David asked as she wrestled with her pants bunched around her ankles.

"A little, yeah. Come here, baby…" Jordan cooed.

"Is the AC broken? I can fix that…" David said, looking over toward the silent window unit.

"Yeah it's broken, baby, but fix it later. Come on…" Jordan scooted urgently up the bed, her legs open and exposing the furry warmth that craved and invited her husband's attention.

"It won't take long…" David said, turning.

"NO!" Jordan shouted. David started, surprised, and looked over and down at her.

Jordan composed herself. "I mean…no, baby…I've missed you. Let me take care of you…"

David smiled and pulled his dress shirt off, then his undershirt.

"Yeah…that's what I like to see…" Jordan grinned impishly as David began to undo his belt.

He looked down at his wife, naked and open for him. His focus shifted, honing in on her body.

Her pose.

Her eyes.

There was something in her eyes.

Hunger.

Inviting was not the word to describe Jordan on the bed. Nor was magnetic. Some other word, maybe. Maybe there isn't a word for it. But now he craved…

David kicked off his shoes, dropped his pants and slid his boxers down to reveal his small penis, stiff and eager at the sight of Jordan spread for him.

She cocked a half smile seeing his eagerness revealed, then looked up into his eyes and beckoned with her finger.

David fell onto the bed and scrambled on top of her. She lifted her legs as he lined himself up and slid inside her.

She was warm. Very warm.

They both moaned as they began their coupling.

Jordan wrapped her arms behind his neck and locked her ankles around his waist.

He began kissing her deeply as his hips began a shallow pulse between her legs. He twitched with eagerness.

"Oh, honey…" Jordan cooed between kisses. "I've missed you so…"

David grunted as he stiffened, jerked, and ejaculated.

Jordan stopped mid sentence, her eyes widening as her husband choked out his orgasm, then collapsed on top of her.

"I'm sorry…" David gasped out. "I just…it's been a while, and you really got me going…"

Jordan was speechless for a moment, then smiled, her eyes still holding wide in surprise as David withdrew from her body and flopped onto his back, his office socks still on.

"It's okay, honey…" Jordan said after composing herself. "It's actually flattering…"

He was still panting desperately. She propped herself up on her elbow, forcing a smile as he regained composure to look over at her.

"I like to know I drive my man crazy." She poked him playfully in the chest, then snuggled up next to him. "I got ya just where I want ya."

David caught his breath after a moment, then rolled onto his side to face his wife. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm great honey." Jordan answered, smiling and nodding.

"You look…your face is flushed. And your chest. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, baby. I'm fine. I'm just…it's hot in here, you know?"

"It really is…" David answered, looking over his shoulder toward the AC window unit. "You want me to fix it?"

Jordan was speechless again.

"Or…" David said, catching himself, "You…you want to cuddle some more, maybe?"

Jordan cleared her throat. "No. I mean, I'm always up for cuddling, but it is hot. Maybe you can fix it and then we can cuddle after?"

"On it." David replied, sitting up quickly and moving to the drawer. He quickly changed into jeans and a work shirt before heading out through the bedroom door to get his tool bag.

Jordan watched him go, bewildered. After a moment, she shook her head quietly got up, and found a robe and put it on over her naked body. She went into the bathroom and ran cold water in the sink, then splashed it on her face and the back of her neck before drying off.

When she got back to the bedroom, she felt a little less flustered, and sat down on the edge of the bed. David had the cover of the AC off, and was already testing components.

"How long has this been broken?" David asked over his shoulder.

"Not super long. Like a week." Jordan answered.

"Huh. You know, honey, I'm happy to fix this, but you could have called someone. We can afford it now. I don't want you suffering just because I'm not here to fix it."

Jordan smiled genuinely. "Thanks honey. But I'm glad you're home. I really am. I've missed you. I like watching you fix stuff."

"I missed you too, Jojo." David grinned over his shoulder, pulling the cover off the window unit..

* * *

Three H-shaped barracks buildings were interposed between the battalion headquarters building and the dilapidated trailer that served as the head shed for Charlie company. The most direct route between one and the other involved walking through successive sets of doors that contained a training space nestled between the long ends of the "H" that formed each building. Pushing open the first door, he found a group of marines in a small semicircle, all dressed in half-uniform, grunting as they held their bodies in a tense, downward push-up position.


"Ten-hut!" one of them shouted, and all snapped to their feet and saluted.

"Good morning sir!" the one in the middle shouted.

"Good morning. As you were." He returned the salute and they dropped back down into push-up position as he pushed through the second door.

Walking between the buildings, he opened the entrance to the second barracks, pushing into the second courtyard to find a similar sized group of marines, all seated on the ground with disassembled rifles and cleaning gear. They, too, snapped to their feet and saluted.

"Good morning, sir!" One of them shouted.

"Good morning," he responded, returning the salute. "Carry on, marines. I'm just passing through."

"Aye, sir…" They all made to sit down as he pushed through the second door.

Fully expecting more activity, he was not surprised when he pushed into the third training space to find a larger group of marines huffing and puffing as they raced each other, dragging and carrying each other around a hastily assembled course made up of small orange cones. Seeing him, they all stopped and snapped to attention, saluting.

"Good morning sir…" the one nearest to him puffed.

"Good morning, marines. Don't let me stop you. Carry on with your training." He pushed past the final door, moving across the grass toward his destination as he heard the huffing and scraping continue behind him. Reaching his destination, he opened the door and walked through.

"Attention on deck! Battalion Commander on deck! Good morning sir!" The nearest marine snapped to attention. Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe looked around, a curious expression on his face. No one in the office was seated. All were standing, and waist-and-chest high desks had been assembled out of what looked to be salvage plywood. There wasn't a chair in the room.

"Stand at ease, Charlie Company," Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe said calmly. "I'd like to speak with your CO. Is Captain Rein around?"

"Yes sir, in his office."

"Thank you. Carry on, marines." He walked to the company commander's office and opened the door.

Mark was surprised to see him. Walking toward him, he extended his hand. "Good morning, sir. Good to see you. What can I do for you?"

The older officer shut the door behind him and looked thoughtfully around the sparse office. Mark, too, had a plywood standing desk with no pictures on it. Behind his desk was a framed American flag with a mild tear and some stains on it. Wolfe recognized the exact flag as one that flew over Mark's patrol base during their deployment to Afghanistan almost a decade prior. On either side of the framed flag were two more frames: On the left was his promotion warrant to captain (with a relatively recent date) and on the right his bachelor's degree in English Literature from the University of Texas, El Paso. The sole window looking out of the office was boarded over with plywood with the phrase "try it again" stenciled with spray paint on the compressed wood face.

"So I'd heard there were no chairs in the building. But I thought that was just a rumor." Wolfe said, with an eyebrow raised.

Mark smirked. "No rumor, sir."

"What happened?"

"Bit of a breakdown in discipline, sir. So no one in Charlie Company gets chairs until they've earned them."

"So what…you burned the rest of them?"

"No, not at all sir. I wouldn't do that. Well, I threw one through this window, but that was…never mind. But no, they're all stacked in storage."

Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe nodded, mirroring Mark's smirk. "Well, I wanted a shot to the arm of this company. Looks like you're trying some things. So, you've had a month. I haven't seen much, I just got back from Washington. How's it going?"

"It's going well, sir. Slow but steady. Takes a while to tighten a ship that was that loose."

"You fired your XO on the first day."

"Technically second, sir. He didn't show up on the first day."

Wolfe nodded. "Fair enough."

"Were you able to reassign him?" Mark asked.

"I could have, but no. I booted him from the battalion. They sent him over to the logistics battalion. Get this…he's working for an old friend of ours."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Macintosh?"

Wolfe nodded. "Yep. He's a major, now. Shlubbin' it up somewhere where they count bullets or stack tires or something. Lieutenant Reynolds was garbage. He and Macintosh will get along fine."

"So you're not upset I fired him right away?"

"Not at all. Looks like the message got through to the others, too. They're scared shitless of you."

"Fear first. When they trust me, we can build toward respect."

"That's why I brought you on, Rein."

"I appreciate that, sir. I really do. So what brings you over?"

Wolfe looked around the room again, distracted, then snapped back into focus again. "I want to steal Poisson."

Mark's eyes narrowed. "How do you mean, sir?"

"Not totally, don't panic. Just to do some instructor training. We've got a handful of brown belts in the other companies that I want leveled up to black belt, then instructor. Normally we'd send them temporary up to the MACE for training, but that takes forever to get approved with all the travel. Since we've already got Poisson here, I figured that'd be more efficient."

"Gunny P's pretty busy with my guys, sir. I'm not sure how much more we can stretch him as a resource."

"He's brought your guys up to speed for now. They can practice what they know for a while, I want to get the other companies to advance, that way we can train everyone more efficiently. This is a battalion priority."

"How much time do you need him for?"

"Give me a day a week. I'll send another staff sergeant over to pick up the slack if he needs paperwork done while he's busy helping us out."

"I think we can make that work," Mark said. He leaned over and smacked the wall with his large flat palm, his voice booming around the trailer.

"Gunny P! Report!"

Jared hustled out of his office and opened the door to Mark's office, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. Wolfe extended his hand and Jared shook it.

"Morning, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I was just telling your CO here that we need you to bring a few brown belts up to black belts and then certify them as instructors. Can we borrow you one day a week?"

"Of course, sir, but I've got…"

"I already covered that, we've got extra staff sergeants coming out of our ears over at battalion headquarters, I'll send one over to help you out with paperwork and administrative redundancies. You game?"

"Sure thing sir. Just one question. These brown belts–what are my limits?"

Wolfe grinned. "Don't actually kill them, break their bones, or take them out of action in any way that would render them undeployable. Beyond that, you can torment them however you want."

Jared grinned back. "Sounds good, sir. Name the day."

"I'll get back to you."

"Not a problem, sir. Anything else we can do for you?"

Wolfe chuckled. "No, from what I can see, you're following my intent pretty closely in cleaning out the rot in this company. Although the no-chairs thing, that's a new one on me. So unless you can talk my daughter out of going to law school, I think I'm happy for now."

Mark chuckled, and Jared's eyes brightened. "Law school, sir?"

"Yeah," Wolfe responded wearily. "My oldest…she's about to graduate college, she wants to go to law school. I don't want to say no, and I guess I really can't, but I'm not thrilled about it. But I don't know what I'm talking about, either. Don't even know why I'm against it. Just weird to see your kids grow up, I guess."

"My wife's a lawyer, sir." Jared offered.

"Really?" Wolfe's eyebrows raise. "I had no idea. Although I don't know why I'm surprised. I hope you know I meant no offense, gunny."

"No sir, that's not…I just meant if your daughter wants to talk to someone in the profession, or even if you do, Meg's been a lawyer for…over six years now."

"Really? What does she do?"

"DOJ." Jared said proudly. "Federal prosecutor. Specializes in corporate fraud and government affairs. She really likes it."

"Sir," Mark interjected. "I've got a barbecue going on at my place this Sunday. Not the whole company, just for the platoon leaders and Gunny here. And families. A little peace offering after all the hammers we've been dropping on them. Why don't you swing by? You and your daughter can talk to Meg, figure all that out. Have a beer and a brat. We'd love to have you."

Wolfe nodded agreeably. "I'll run it by the missus. That sounds really helpful. Gunny, you're full of surprises…" the battalion commander playfully punched Jared in the arm. "Captain, I'll let you know."

Jared and Mark exchanged a look as Wolfe turned around to walk out of the office. Through the door, they heard the outer office snap to attention again, then relax to resume work as the outer door closed behind him.

* * *

Jordan's fingers compulsively caressed her husband's chest as she snuggled him on the couch. His eyes stayed fixed on the big screen of their TV, occasionally commenting on the show.

"I've never been able to square how the Enterprise crew could basically just beam on board the Borg ship and walk around without resistance. I mean, I know it's a hive mind and there are no individual egos to spot them, but you're really telling me that a super advanced ship doesn't have some kind of automated non-assimilation detection technology? Or even some kind of proximity or breech alert?"

"Mmmm," Jordan replied. "Yeah, it's weird." She clutched him tighter, turning her head to plant a kiss on his chest.

David looked down and ran his fingers through her hair. "It's good to be home, Jo. I like couch time with my woman."

"Mmmm, I love couch time with my man…" Jordan murmured, kissing his chest again. She slipped her hand under his shirt and ran her hand back and forth across his skinny torso. Then, sitting up, she leaned over to kiss back and forth across David's face, nudging his glasses out of place.

"Easy there, honey…" David said, adjusting his glasses. "You're awfully affectionate tonight…"

"I missed you." Jordan began kissing down his neck, still rubbing the skin on his torso.

David paused the show and set the remote down on the end table. "You want to move back to the bedroom, honey?"

"No, I want you to kiss me back…right here…" Jordan murmured, pulling at the back of his head and kissing his lips. They exchanged affections for a few moments with gentle mutual smacking noises punctuating the silence of the muted TV. Jordan then guided David's head downward to kiss her neck, then her collar bones, then, gently but tentatively, the softening tissue just below her collar bones.

Jordan's breathing was heavy. She wiggled to pull her tank top off, exposing her breasts, then kissed David once more before guiding his mouth directly to her nipple.

Taking the hint for once, David quietly began to suckle, eliciting a gasp from his wife. She clutched at his hair, biting her lip and bucking her hips a few times before moving his lips to her other breast. He repeated the directed action, flicking his tongue across the stiffening tip before she pushed him back and climbed onto his lap, drinking in his lips again.

David's hands desperately fondled his wife's breasts, pausing to caress and lightly pinch her nipples. Each time pressure was applied, a little mmm…mmm… vibrated from her mouth into his through their kiss. Then, with surprising agility, Jordan rolled back into the couch and pulled her pajama pants and panties off, let her knees fall apart and pulled a shocked David by the hair down between her legs.

"Yeah…Yeah…oh David. Oh, honey..yeah…please…"

David's arousal spiked with his wife's encouragement as he began to lap up her eagerness. Recovering from the initial shock after a few deep licks over her vulva, he focused his efforts on finding and teasing her exterior pleasure spots for a few moments, then going right for the button.

Jordan gasped and her legs twitched. She heard David moan into her and she went off like a rocket, throwing her head back and squeezing his head between her legs as she pulled his face roughly into her warmth.

She choked out her orgasm, her whole body tensing as she lifted her head to see her legs snapped shut around her husband's ears before relaxing and dropping her head back onto the couch pillow, and letting her legs fall open.

David kissed her wet folds gently, then sat upright and wiped off his mouth. Jordan's look was one of sweet relief. Like being able to sit for the first time at the end of a twenty hour shift. She breathed heavily but happily, then managed to lift a weary smile as she looked up at her husband.

"Baby…thank you. I needed that."

"Any time…" David smiled in surprise. "I've never seen you like that."

"Yeah, well…" Jordan shrugged, reaching down to put her pajama pants back on.

"Yeah, well, what?" David asked, curious. "Are you sure everything's okay? You seem really stressed."

Jordan shrugged again. "Don't worry about it, baby," she said, reaching for her tank top and pulling it back on over her head. "I am stressed, but it's just dissertation year, and, you know…I miss you."

"I miss you too, baby. More than you know." David said, smiling tightly with sympathetic eyes.

Jordan leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I know, honey. And I still think we're doing the right thing. But we knew it was going to be hard. And it turns out–it kind of is."

"Yeah," David conceded. "We're both so busy, and the distance…it can be hard to talk and connect. But I can work on that. We can get better at it."

"It's not just that," Jordan replied after a pause. "Baby, I don't quite know how to say this."

David waited expectantly for her to form her thought.

"David, I miss you…physically. I don't know how to explain it. I kind of need you. Physically. And it kind of builds up. It can really add to my stress sometimes."

"Oh…" David said. "I think I can relate. I mean, I always miss your body, and I definitely need sex sometimes. No better stress reliever."

"Yeah…" Jordan agreed sheepishly, looking down at the floor. "I don't know if it's the same. Maybe it is. But I just…I kind of go crazy if I don't get to be with you physically."

David held his breath, unsure of how to answer. "Well, we're together now."

"Yeah, we are…" Jordan grinned, looking up at him. "And you make me feel so good, baby. Like just now…I just…" She looked down again.

"I'm not sure what to do when you're gone."

David nodded, patting her back and rubbing it gently. "Yeah, it's not ideal."

"I don't know…" Jordan said, unsure of how to phrase it. "I feel like it just keeps…building up, and the pressure adds up day by day. It's just…I don't know."

They sat in awkward silence on the couch, the TV frozen on an exterior shot of the starship Enterprise.

David spoke. "Do you…um…take care of yourself?"

Jordan blushed, keeping her eyes on the ground. "You mean…do I masturbate?"

David's eyes held down at his feet, blushing back.

"Yeah…that."

Jordan didn't answer directly. "Um, do you?"

David nodded silently. "Sometimes."

Jordan didn't look up. "Me too. Sometimes."

David squeezed her leg. "That's okay with me. I…I actually like that you do that. It turns me on."

Jordan brightened, looking over at him briefly before looking back down. "Really? You sure?"

Red faced, David nodded.

Jordan's blush deepened. "Okay."

"So…" David said carefully. "Maybe, since we're apart a lot, maybe we could like, kind of do that together?"

"Okay…" Jordan replied quietly. "How would we…um, do that?"

"I don't know, maybe, like…we could call and talk to each other while we both do it."

"Yeah, that could work," Jordan nodded, looking up at him hopefully.

"You used to do that sometimes, with…"

Jordan looked back down, her voice dampening. "With…with Mark. Um, yeah." Her voice was just below a whisper. "Yeah. We did that a couple of times."

David's voice trembled with excitement. "Did you…did you like it? With him?"

Jordan shrugged. "It was…okay. But I knew it excited you. That's what I really liked. Can we not talk about Mark?"

"Okay." David said quickly. "All I'm saying is, it's something we could do."

"Yeah, we could do that," Jordan responded quickly, trying to shift focus back to her relationship with her husband. "It might be weird, but we can try it."

"Okay." David began rubbing her leg again, squeezing her gently just above her knee.

"It might be better if I had something that was kind of like you…" Jordan offered at length.

"Something like me?" David wasn't sure. "Like a toy or something?"

"Yeah. If we could get one that's just like you. I'd like that, and then when we talk and…do that together, I could use it. It would feel a little more like you're with me. I think I'd want that."

"Okay…" David choked out. "That…that's fine. That makes sense."

Jordan grinned, looking over at him. "This could be fun. Even a little naughty…" She giggled. "Want to go find a prosthetic David to buy tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Sure."

"Okay…" Jordan giggled again, clapping the palms of her hands together excitedly. "I'm going sex toy shopping with my husband! Oh, this is naughty…"

Her blush returned until her eyes lit up with a new idea.

"Oh! We should measure you! You know, to make sure we get just the right one."

"Measure me?" David asked, a little taken aback.

"Yeah. So we get just the right one. Perfect size and shape, and everything. I want it to be just like being with you. I'll go get my tailor's tape from my sewing kit. Don't move a muscle."

Jordan launched out of the couch and ran back to the bedroom.

David's face began to redden again, unsure of how to feel, but noting the blood rushing to his penis. From their bedroom, he heard her rummaging around, pulling her sewing kit out of the depths of their shared closet. Then she returned giddily to the living room.

"We should get you excited. You need to be just like you are when we're together…want me to help you with that?"

David cleared his throat. "Um, no…I think I'm ready, actually."

"Really? Okay…" Jordan giggled again. "Stand up, I want to get a good measurement. Stand right here," she indicated to a spot on the floor next to the couch.

David moved to stand there.

"Now, take your pants down…" She began unrolling the measuring tape as David sheepishly dropped his pants to his knees, his boxers following. His erect penis stiffly jutted out from his skinny frame.

Jordan kneeled in front of him, carefully placing the edge of the tape at the base of his penis and rolled it out until it ran smoothly over his full length, draping over the tip of his erection. She leaned in closely to inspect the mark on the tape.

"3…just over 3 and a half inches. Now let's wrap it around here…" She giggled again as she tightened the tape until it was snug around him, then leaned in to inspect where the base tape and the marking met.

"That's…just under 3 and…yeah. That's 3 and a quarter inches."

She reached out to her phone and opened her notes app, making a new entry while David waited, the measuring tape still draped and hanging off his erection.

Note for shopping tomorrow:

David's penis: 3 ½ inches length, 3 ¼ inches circumference

She closed the note, then wrapped up the tape again. "There," she said, brightly smiling up at him. "That way we don't have to sneak into the bathroom and measure you in the store or something."

David's face burned and his member twitched. For the first time, Jordan noticed the pitched arousal of her husband. His labored, stammering breathing, and a new, nearly perceptible twitch in his legs.

She had missed the signs in her own brief moment o–whatever that most recent impulse was– either scientific curiosity or careful consumer behavior.

She smiled slyly up at him.

"While I'm down here…" She intoned playfully. "I suppose I can return the favor. Since you were so accommodating to me earlier…"

She set the tape down and pinched his penis between her thumb and forefinger, then leaned forward to lick his tip.

David coughed nervously.

"You like that, Mr. Stark?" She licked his tip again. "You like when I get naughty like this?"

David nodded quickly and silently.

"Well. That's good to know." Jordan held eye contact up toward her husband as she opened her mouth to suck him. She went immediately to the base of his member, swirling her tongue around him as he began to gasp.

"Mmmm…" Jordan's pleasure at his response couldn't find words–since her mouth was, if not quite full, at least occupied.

David, swarmed by arousal and warm pleasure, began to lose his balance. He steadied himself on her shoulder, then leaned back to sit on the armrest of the couch. Jordan followed him, her auburn hair swaying subtly as her head made small, shallow bobbing movements.

A moment passed like this.

David gulped, gasped, and hollered as his wife finished the job.

As his twitching died down, Jordan held her head still, her lips tightly sealed around the desperate stiffness of her husband.

Once he was clearly finished, she relaxed and pulled her mouth back and let him fall limp. Feeling extra saucy, she opened her mouth to display three little translucent beads–a neat little row of David's ecstasy–nested in the middle of her tongue. Then, she swallowed ostentatiously before smiling broadly and giggling, clearly pleased with herself.

David caught his breath, then bent at the waist to kiss his wife deeply.

"You're amazing Jordan. Good god. You're amazing."

She giggled again. "Thanks for noticing…"

David pulled up his pants again and flopped back on the couch.

Jordan rose from her knees and resumed her snuggling position next to him.

David kissed her one more time, then resumed the show, watching the crew of the Enterprise gallantly resist the Borg assimilation attempt.

* * *

"Alright, anyone full-on drunk yet?"

The little party laughed at the half-joke. Mark was casually dressed in comfortable tan slacks with a black leather belt, a black polo shirt, tucked in. Standing next to the grill, which was still heating up, he addressed the little gathering of platoon commanders, platoon sergeants, and other company leaders with their families. All told, around two dozen adults and a handful of children, all of whom were milling on and around the playset Mark had built in the backyard for Jared and Megan's boys.

"So no pressure, but Colonel Wolfe is stopping by with his wife and daughter in a little bit. So enjoy yourself, help yourself to whatever, but don't get drunk enough to say or do something stupid and ruin everyone's career."

"Aye sir…" a few voices tumbled awkwardly over each other, unsure of just how serious he was.

"That's it. That's all I got. No speeches today. Just have fun."

Everyone laughed again, and a few raised beers in cheerful acknowledgment.

Jared stood opposite the grill, silently observing everyone milling about, and keeping half an eye on his sons playing with the other kids. Megan was occupied, darting in and out of Mark's house carrying food for the grill and for the table, and generally making sure everything was running smoothly.

It was a dynamic Jared was familiar with, although the shift to this public and quasi-professional setting was definitely new. Whenever Mark didn't have a girlfriend, Megan would step in to take care of him. This had been the arrangement, recurring regularly with varying degrees of intensity for years now. And after years, he was still surprised at how natural it felt.

In fact, watching Megan cheerfully attend to Mark had a powerful effect on him. And she clearly loved to be available for him. He would text or call her on occasion, talking for hours sometimes, usually about whatever book they decided to read together. Sometimes she would go on dates with him, usually to high-culture events like symphonies and art galleries–things that Jared himself had no patience or understanding for. And of course she would present herself at his home regularly to see to his sexual needs.

Jared shuddered and blinked.

Megan emerged from the house again, carrying a tray of freshly cut watermelon, smiling as the little crowd dove in to get their piece of fresh fruit when she set the platter down on the table.

Mark laughed over his shoulder at the little melee around Megan. The grill was now hot, Jared could see, and Mark began to throw slabs of meat and bratwurst on the grill.

Megan looked beautiful today. But in a wholesome kind of way. This wasn't her woman-of-the-law femme fatale look, the one she donned on her way to the office every morning. And it wasn't her normal casual cool-chick outfit of sweatpants or jeans with T-shirts sporting sports team or rock band logos–her usual outfits for quality time with her husband. And it wasn't even the normal Mark-pleasing attire, either. Normally when they went to visit Mark at his home, she would dress in a way she knew he liked. Tank tops were common, with a hoodie over the tank top in cold weather. And yoga pants or shorts, depending on the weather. Mark loved Meg's bare shoulders, and liked to see the smooth contour of her rear end highlighted by tight pants or short bottoms. But today she wore a much more conservative Sunday barbecue outfit: a plain T-shirt that hugged her form without showcasing her assets too overtly, and plain shorts that showed her legs, but were not cut particularly high. Her hair was tied back in a clean, sporty ponytail. She wore her black horn-rimmed glasses instead of contacts, and she had applied a little bit of makeup.

She looked like a respectable wife and a mother.

Which, of course, she was.

But she had mentioned something to Jared while getting dressed that morning. That she didn't want to look like a slut if the colonel's wife came.

It made sense. She was married to the senior enlisted man in the company, so she shouldn't dress in a way that could make her husband look bad. But now, watching her smile and work the crowd, diligently attending to the needs of the event…watching her cast occasional admiring glances over at Mark, standing by the grill…

Megan was approaching the line of playing a new part altogether: the captain's wife.

It wasn't so overt that it would cause a scandal. The long friendship between the Poissons and Mark Rein was well known, and since Mark didn't have a girlfriend or wife, it was understandable for Megan to help out as the bachelor-commander tried to cater a family event.

But Jared was feeling things as he watched her dip her toes into that gray area…

Jared wiped the sweat off his forehead, walking over to help Mark at the grill.

The first round of brats and burgers came off the grill and landed on plates that were quickly snatched up.

Some guests stood, others sat, and everyone seemed to be having a good time.

Mark was in good spirits, and had just set down the last cold beef patty of the second batch on the grill when the latch to Mark's fence clicked open, and the new guests arrived.

The vibe of the party stiffened significantly as Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe stepped into the back yard with his wife and daughter. He was dressed in jeans and a golf shirt, a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap on his head and aviator sunglasses over his eyes. His wife, an attractive woman in her early forties was dressed in a casual but modest sundress with sandals, sunglasses, and a small silver crucifix around her neck. Their daughter, a pretty young blonde woman in her early twenties trailed behind, visibly nervous and wearing unassuming jeans and a maroon T-shirt.

"Sir!" Mark waved over to the senior officer as Wolfe headed to greet him at the grill. "Glad you could make it. Welcome to the craziness."

"Doesn't look too crazy…" Wolfe cracked, slapping Mark on the shoulder. "I suppose that's a good thing since we've all got work in the morning. Everyone, meet my wife Beth, and my daughter Charity. Honey, this is Captain Rein, he'll introduce everyone else…"

"You must be Mrs Rein…" Beth interrupted her husband, leaning in to greet Megan with a hug. "I'm so happy to meet you…"

"No…uh…hi!" Megan awkwardly returned the greeting, looking over at Mark for help.

"No, I'm sorry Mrs. Wolfe," Mark corrected her awkwardly. "I'm sorry, uh, Beth…that's actually Megan Poisson, my company gunny's wife. Gunny Poisson, Meg, meet Mrs. Beth Wolfe and, uh, Charity…"

"Oh my goodness, I'm mortified. I'm so sorry!" Beth emoted, clutching Megan by the shoulders. "I jumped the gun, I'm so sorry, dear. I hope I didn't offend. And you, too, Captain, I hope I didn't offend. Is your wife here?"

Mark smiled. "Not offended at all, Beth. Megan's a beautiful, brilliant woman. Gunny P's landed a woman way out of his league. And I'm not married, I'm a bachelor."

Beth turned to her husband, playfully swatting him on the shoulder. "You didn't tell me he wasn't married. Why aren't you married?" She turned back to Mark.

He shrugged. "Just haven't found the right girl yet. Still looking."

"Well, we'll have to fix that. I have a lunch every month with all the commanding and executive officers' wives, and I haven't seen the new Charlie company girl. I thought she was just shy, that's why I jumped to conclusions and put my foot in my mouth…again, I'm so sorry, sweetie…" She gripped Megan's forearm imploringly.

"It's really not a problem," Megan reassured her. "He's a handsome devil, that Captain Rein. I'll be happy to be mistaken for his wife any day. Not that my main squeeze of a man over there isn't also devastatingly handsome."

Jared had been standing quietly with a blush as the bungled introductions commenced. Now he saw the battalion commander's wife look over toward him with imploring eyes. "I'm so sorry Gunny Poison? What an interesting name."

"Poisson, ma'am. Pronounced Pwe-son. It's actually the french word for fish. But it's hard for people to pronounce. So I usually just answer to Gunny P. Or Jared if you prefer first names." He extended his hand to her and shook it. She continued to apologize.

"Well, that went well…" Wolfe said, laughing. The little group laughed, then stood awkwardly in silence. Mark turned around to flip burgers.

"You're thinking about law school, aren't you Charity?" Megan broke the ice, talking to the younger woman. "I heard you might want to talk about it. I'm a lawyer."

"Really?" The young woman spoke for the first time. "Yeah, I'm interested. Can I ask where you went to law school?"

"Georgetown," Megan said casually, sipping her drink.

"Wow. That's so cool. And what do you practice?"

"I'm a federal prosecutor. Still low on the ladder, I specialize in white collar crimes. Embezzlement, corruption, insider trading. Some mob-adjacent stuff like money laundering. And some government affairs stuff too."

"Is that what you always wanted?"

"No, actually. I wanted to be a courtroom litigator for violent crimes, but then when I started practicing I realized that you can do way more good cutting off bad guys' money than you can finding thugs to put in jail. Also, I discovered my favorite part. See…people who do big money crimes genuinely don't think they're criminals. They all think they're just really smart businessmen, or that they're just misunderstood. I like showing them they're wrong. It's fun to watch their faces when they realize how screwed they are. It's like, my favorite hobby now…"

Jared watched the little group laugh as Megan's charisma led into a lively exchange between the young woman, her parents, and Mark. He stood to the side and watched.

She was so damn smart. She talked way over his head. She always did, but she was also careful never to talk down to him. He wasn't dumb, but he knew from the moment they met that she was the brain in the relationship.

And she was so beautiful…when she spoke eloquently about her professional life, she took on a confidence that just…enhanced her beauty somehow. He never understood it, but it happened every time.

And other times, she wasn't so much beautiful as she was traffic-stopping gorgeous. Other times she was drop-dead sexy. Today, here, now, she was just beautiful. Charming. Magnetic.

The Battalion Commander's wife had publicly mistaken his wife for Mark's. It was understandable. She was standing next to Mark at the grill. She had been running little errands and doing little tasks to keep the barbecue going smoothly. Mark and Megan had similar hair color, skin color, eye color. And they had obvious chemistry. They were clearly bonded over a long relationship–of some kind.

They even had the same initials, if you left off Megan's hyphenated married name. MR + MR.

Mark and Megan were a match.

He felt some kind of jealous. But it was a strange jealousy. It didn't make him fear or resent Mark, and it didn't make him feel betrayed by Megan. It spurred the impulse to struggle in him. It made him feel like he had to be better. That he had to stay sharp and competitive in his marriage to hold on to the woman he loved. But as a born and trained fighter, he loved that feeling. The constant need to struggle, to improve, to fight for something. For someone. To conquer. The knowledge that limitations were meant to be pushed. Overcome.

At the same time, he loved that he had limitations that Megan knew about, loved, and accepted. And that she respected him enough to let him be fully himself by not requiring him to be everything for her. By acknowledging needs she had that he just couldn't quite meet.

This strange, productive jealousy resulted in Jared both suffering and enjoying a potent cocktail of yearning happiness rising organically from a singularly threatening fact: that his wife had a deep connection with another man who understood, appreciated, and returned her affections. That that man–his best friend–was a solid match for Megan, meeting her excess needs by complementing those dimensions of her personality that he could only admire. Her intelligence. Her culture. Her desire to bond and even couple with an enigmatic, deep, brooding man. While he could never fully account for it, he admitted he loved that she could get things from her lover of lasting and deep value. Things that Jared would never begrudge her, never resent.

Some of which he would even treasure himself.

Mark and Megan shared a deep friendship, many interests and passions, inside jokes, and an incredible physical chemistry.

And in all likelihood, they shared a child.

Jared looked over at the playset, seeing Marky sitting cross legged just outside the little ring surrounding the play space, his nose buried in a book.

Jared paused to think of the playset itself. Mark had not asked him if He and Megan wanted a playset for the boys at his house. He just assumed that it was needed, and quietly built it so the boys would have somewhere to play when they came over.

And they came over often.

Jared breathed in deeply, then exhaled, caught in the thickening intensity of his thoughts.

It was a strange brotherhood that had started with chance: he slept in a bunk next to Mark in bootcamp. It had evolved through all sorts of twists and turns, high points and low points, to the present reality: That the two men shared a woman who had, again, in all likelihood, given a son to each of them.

He looked back at Megan, who had just dropped the punchline of another story, rollicking laughter rippling from her happy face. In the midst of the laugh, Jared smiled at her when she caught his eye. She smiled back, a knowing concern in her eyes.

Are you okay?

Jared nodded. She returned the nod and continued to keep the conversation going. As the banter rolled on, Mark periodically turned around to tend to the meat on the grill, but then quickly rejoined the banter with an easy grin.

Mark was relaxed. Jared could tell.

Mark and Megan's smiles were astonishingly similar.

MR + MR. They were a match.

Jared's heart began to race.

"All right, next batch is up!" Mark called out to everyone. "Who wants a burger, and who wants a brat?"

Megan sat her drink down and began to busy herself setting out paper plates to be taken by the guests as Mark portioned out the grilled meat.

It was clearly a natural instinct for her. To dive in and help him.

Jared knew that in a few hours, after the guests had gone, after he and Megan and the boys stayed to help Mark clean up, at some point after everything was put away, when the boys settled down in Mark's living room to watch TV or take a Sunday afternoon nap…at that point in the day Mark and Megan would share a quiet, private laugh about being publicly mistaken as husband as wife.

Jared knew that the joke would lead to a wordless acknowledgment of their deep compatibility. Perhaps an awkward silence would follow. A kind of luscious, affectionate tension would build between them as a result, and that tension would need to be released.

So they would find someplace out of sight and hearing from the boys, Megan would bare her body to Mark and present herself, likely bending expectantly over a couch, a table, a bathroom counter–whatever was handy.

Some time would pass, and then the tension would be relieved.

Jared excused himself, stiffening, and retreated into Mark's house to find the second bathroom. The one in the basement.

Jared needed some privacy.

* * *

It was a surprisingly large, open retail space. Jordan knew these places existed, but always saw them squeezed into seedy strip malls in between pawn shops and liquor stores.

This one was right off the freeway exit, about a 45 minute drive away from their apartment. Jordan and David had agreed that they needed to go someplace where they likely wouldn't be recognized. They held hands nervously as they walked through the blackened glass of the front doors.

Hence, the surprise. Or one of several: the inside of the store was spacious. Repurposed, Jordan supposed, from a different business model in the not-too-distant past. Maybe a sporting goods store or something.

Now, the closed off entryway, which sported a few mannequins in risque-but-still-PG-13 poses and lingerie, opened up to a large retail space, occupied mostly by row after row of DVD racks.

Bewildered would not begin to suffice in describing Jordan's emotional state seeing the racks of DVDs. In every direction, row after row, stack after stack, display after display…there were pictures of naked girls. Some of them in very compromising poses and situations. Most had larger breasts than she had. Some of them were very pretty. All of them calling to her husband.

Jordan struggled to tamp down the panic–a result of the intense consciousness that her husband now stood helpless in a vast, photographic harem. An endless buffet of sexual competition. A gob-smacking display of wildly unrealistic sexual expectation, leering at the love of her life with vacant eyes and lewd, bare bodies.

She squeezed David's hand and ran her other arm through his elbow, clinging to him. Sensing her discomfort, David whispered to her, asking if she wanted to leave. Jordan, blushing, dug her face into his shoulder and shook her head silently.

Recovering somewhat, David walked to the counter, where a young woman with several facial piercings appeared to be the only employee in sight. She looked up expectantly as they approached.

David cleared his throat. "Excuse me…" he said quietly. "We're looking for the, um…do you…do you have a toy section?"

She wordlessly pointed to the back corner of the store. David thanked her and pulled Jordan awkwardly along through the rows of DVDs.

At length, they arrived at the back of the store to find a wide selection of toy options. It was a bit surreal: taking the form of some kind of erotically charged Lovecraftian nightmare–a wall of disembodied cocks available for sale. Different colors, some tan, some pale, some clear some…other. Some glass, some silicone, some plastic. Some committed to anatomical plausibility, others simple, smooth cylinders with tapered or bulbed tips. Some with accessories and accoutrement…others simply stiff and available. Down the line, the faux phalluses morphed into smoother, futuristic wands in varying shapes and sizes, where visual and tactile verisimilitude gave way to the advantages of electric stimulation, configured with contours to meet her needs with elegant scientific precision.

Jordan's face stayed buried in David's shoulder, the red skin of her blush extending deep down her neck.

"Well…" David said. "We're here."

"Mmmhmmm…" Jordan responded awkwardly, not looking up.

"Do you…want to pick out the one you want?"

"Mmmhmm…" Jordan repeated. After a moment of composing herself, she giggled desperately as she looked up at the display.

They seemed to be arranged first by size, then by color. The top left made her jaw drop. All cartoonishly large, some didn't even appear human, with some even having fantastical rainbow colors. She moved on.

Next were an assortment of anatomically possible but still laughably large penises. Some nearly a foot long, with a girth that Jordan simply could not imagine generating anything other than terror and pain in a woman.

She moved on as they shrunk gradually, until she briefly paused–involuntarily–on one in particular. A tan phallus. Stiff. Large but not ludicrous. The label said 8 inches. The thickness seemed to be just above what she could wrap her hand around. The label indicated the product had a name:

RICARDO

Her eyes lingered for a moment, until she realized David was watching her. She quickly and casually moved past, walking slowly down the display. 6 inches. 5 inches. 5 inches and thin.

She pulled out her phone to check her notes, opening the most recent entry.

David's penis: 3 ½ inches length, 3 ¼ inches circumference

She squatted down on the far right side of the display, finding the bottom shelf. There, penises that looked much more like her husband's were interspersed with gag gifts for bachelorette parties. One such label included the all caps descriptor:

FUNNY

Was that necessary?

At length she found a modest selection fitting her specifications and began pulling them off the shelf one by one. Including one of the "funny" ones. Eventually she turned back to David to show him the two options she was contemplating. She was surprised to find his face far redder even than hers when they walked in the store.

"Are you okay, baby?" She asked, her head tilting slightly in concern.

"Yeah. No, I'm good. Did you find the one you want?"

Jordan looked back down the display and saw the vast display of larger items, then looked down where she had been browsing to see that there were a few smaller fake penises for sale than the ones she was holding.

Not many, though.

She began to realize that David had picked up on the display pattern. That he was suddenly conscious of his own limitations.

This may have been a terrible idea.

Jordan pulled the ripcord.

Placing both of the toys back on the display, she smiled broadly at her husband.

"Yeah, baby. I found the one I want. And I want to go use it right away." She took his hand and began to walk briskly back toward the entrance of the store, empty handed.

"Wait…you put them both back. Which one did you want?"

"The one on your body, doofus…" Jordan responded playfully. "Now come on. Take me home so I can play with it…"

"Oh…" David caught on, smiling in recognition before matching her pace. "Okay."

They made their way toward the checkout counter, with Jordan stealing one tiny glance back toward the RICARDO toy before it passed out of view behind the sinful DVD racks.

Catching herself, Jordan checked her husband's eyes, which were firmly fixed forward. She felt relieved that he didn't see that brief glance over her shoulder.

Remember Lot's wife.

They quick-stepped through the front door, with David fumbling in his pocket for the car keys. Halfway across the parking lot, both David and Jordan simultaneously broke into a run.

* * *

"Knock knock…"

"It's open…"

The sturdy wooden door opened into a modest but tastefully decorated office.

"Megan…right?"

"Yep…" Megan replied, seated at her desk, but not looking up from the file she was leafing through. "You can call me Meg if you want. Or whatever. I'm easy."

The nervous intruder stepped tentatively inside and moved toward Megan. "I'm Diana, from HR. We were just processing your transfer paperwork, and I had a couple quick questions."

"Fire when ready, Diana from HR." Megan looked up and smiled. Diana, a plump, blond girl fresh out of college clearly finding her feet in her first job, smiled nervously back at her.

"Um, okay…well, first…"

"You want to sit down?" Megan interrupted, leaning back in her chair. "I usually don't have to offer, but it looks like you'd just stand in the corner awkwardly if I didn't offer."

"Okay, sure…" Diana blushed and sat in one of the chairs opposite Megan's desk.

"I was just going through your files and noticed that the names used aren't consistent. You know how picky payroll gets about that stuff, so I just wanted to clarify. So look here: on this page it says Megan Rodriguez, and on this one it says Megan Poison."

"Poisson. Pronounced pwe-son."

"Oh, I'm sorry. So that's your legal name?"

"It's both. The official paperwork, anything legally binding or pay related should be hyphenated. My legal name is Megan Rodriguez-Poisson. But I use Rodriguez on my letterhead. Keeps it short. Also, people have trouble pronouncing my married name."

"Okay, that clears that up. And I am sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it, Diana from HR. Anything else?"

"Yes, I just need you to sign these new beneficiary forms…and then I think we're set."

She slid a few papers across the desk, which Megan grasped, clicking open a pen. "Sounds great."

It was quiet in the office while Megan reviewed the document before signing.

Lawyer habit.

Diana sat uncomfortably, then cleared her throat. Then she cleared her throat again, a little louder.

"What's on your mind, Diana from HR?" Megan asked, still not looking up.

"Um, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Go for it."

"Is it true you've never lost a case?"

Megan's smile morphed into a smirk. "No, that's not true. I've lost cases. But I won some big ones. So that's probably where that rumor got started." She signed one form, then the other before sliding them back across the desk.

"Ummm, okay. Is it true you made a judge cry in chambers once?"

"No, but I made one spit out the last bite of a Reuben once."

Diana giggled. "Really?"

Megan nodded, holding her smirk.

"Is it true…"

"Probably not…" Megan interrupted her. "Look, Diana. I know everyone wants to razz the new girl. I think they might be messing with you, but yes, I do have a…reputation. Specifically, the reputation of a new transfer with a couple brand-name wins. And I had a bit of a reputation for…my predilection for aggressive tactics in my former location. Sometimes aggression works. Sometimes it doesn't. I guess we'll see if it works here. If not, I'll have to learn a new schtick."

Diana blushed and smiled, clearly nurturing a feeling–somewhere between fan-girl enthusiasm and a full-on girl crush for the confident new attorney.

"So if you don't have any more questions, Diana from HR, I've enjoyed our little chat. But I have stacks of paper to highlight. So shoo…"

Megan waved her hand playfully, smiling as the younger woman stood up and turned to head out of the office.

"Can I ask just one more…" Diana said, pausing as she opened the door.

"One more…" Megan said, her head already back down in her work.

"Is it true you married a cage fighter?"

Megan snorted.

"Okay, I thought that one was obviously not true…" Diana apologized.

"No, that one's true."

Diana's eyes widened. "Really? For real?"

Megan laughed. "Yeah, really. My husband is an active duty marine, he's spent most of his career training in unarmed combat. He's won a good handful of military tournaments, and did some charity exhibitions for Toys for Tots that made it onto TV. But he hasn't fought professionally."

"That's so cool…" Diana gushed, clutching the file to her body in excitement.

"Well, he certainly thinks so," Megan quipped, uncapping her highlighter.

"You don't think so?" Diana asked.

"No…" Megan chuckled. "I definitely do. I just think it's funny that that's the one true rumor about me."

"Oh, right."

Megan waved the new girl away just as her supervisor, Jack, knocked on the open door.

Jack was a career associate counsel, senior to Megan by more than a decade. He handled the distribution of cases, and he and Megan had met several times to determine her role on the team. She hadn't started working any cases herself yet, just doing triage on a backlog of potential cases to get started on.

"Did you finish reviewing the Navy files yet?"

"Not quite. But almost. Some of them have potential, and I think we give them a go."

"Well, if we do, you can pick the ones you want. Don't worry, you won't have to fight for them. Nobody here wants these."

"They don't know what they're missing. The pure adrenaline of corruption cases…can't compare the high when you lock up one of those dickheads."

"Well, here's one more that might fit those specs. But trust me: you definitely don't want this one."

"Why not?" Megan asked, opening the file.

"You'll see."

Megan summarized out loud as she read.

"Inspector General's report, possible misappropriation of funds…"

"Yep, keep going."

"Mid seven figures unaccounted for, principal suspect is a logistics officer…"

"Almost there…"

"Father of the principal suspect is…a congressman on the house appropriations committee. Shit. Yeah, I don't want any part of that." She closed the file and handed it over the desk to him.

Jack laughed, grabbing the file back. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Nobody wants…"

"Wait…let me see that again…"

Jack raised his eyebrow and handed the file folder back. She opened it and her eyes darted rapidly back and forth as she read further down the page. Finding what she was looking for, her eyes slowed, then stopped.

Her face broke into a slow, wide, smooth, and deeply ambiguous grin.

She looked up from the file.

"Actually, I think I'd like to look at this one a little more. If that's alright with you?"

[Tire_Kicker]

Megan... What a woman, gives Intellisexy a whole new meaning.

Looking forward to where this is going, well done Crushing!

[Johng1953]

Seems to me Jordan needs some real stress relief while David's away!
Thank you for another great chapter.

[nnjcpl2002]

Very cool. The shithead Captain gets his comeuppance. Brings to mind the old addage that Karma is a bitch!

But Crushing, we're eager for your next instalment. Please, sir!

[Crushing]

Sorry for the delay, all. The next two chapters are kind of a tight pair, and I was going to post them together. The second one isn't really landing where I want it to yet, though. Hence the delay. But here's the first, and the second should follow before too long. Hope you enjoy!

[Crushing]

"So what did he say? Like, exactly?"

Jared leaned over his half-empty plate in a back corner of the neighborhood bar and grill. He was still dumbfounded by the news.

Megan didn't say anything, her face drawn in a mixture of shock and sympathy.

Mark's voice was monotone.

"He said there was going to be an investigation. Willful endangerment, I think that's the words they used. I don't know, it's all officer shit. Legal terms or whatever. Basically they're saying that I deliberately injured Lieutenant Macintosh when we charged the village and broke formation early."

"But the answer's already there in the way they phrase the charge," Megan insisted helplessly. "It couldn't be willful endangerment if you broke from the plan. How can you on-purpose hurt someone when you don't plan to do it? That's an accident. That's almost the definition of accidental!"

"Yeah, and don't forget one more little detail…that the whiny little lump of shit wasn't actually hurt!" Jared slapped the table.

Several other patrons turned to look quizzically at their table.

"Right!" Megan said, resting her palm on Jared's hand to stop him from making a scene. "So it's obviously a ridiculous idea from the get-go. He didn't get hurt, and it wasn't on purpose."

"Total fuckin' bullshit." Jared muttered.

Mark shrugged, his eyes hanging down. "It almost doesn't matter. An investigation is just bad. I might not get a court martial, but this is still probably a career killer. Especially right now…I'm up for re-enlistment, this might fuck that up. I don't know, man. I just don't know what to do."

"You fight it. We fight it. That's what we do. Come on, man…you're not gonna let fucking Macintosh get this one over on you…" Jared pleaded, just above a whisper.

"Who does the investigation?" Megan asked.

"I don't know. Someone from JAG probably." Mark said sullenly.

"What did Captain Wolfe say about it?" Megan pressed.

"I mean, he knows it's bullshit but he can't say it's bullshit. I know he's not happy about it, but he's not gonna do shit to stop it. I don't think Colonel Chen's gonna stop it either. I guess Macintosh has some connections higher up. I think I'm just fucked." Mark put his head in his hands.

"I'm not sure it's as bad as you think. I think you just let it play out, Mark," Megan responded. "I think it's obvious nonsense, and I think as long as you tell the truth, it will be fine. Macintosh will come out looking stupid, it won't hurt your career. Everybody knows you, and everybody knows Macintosh. The investigators will find out pretty quick who the good guy is here. Let them do their thing. Just relax, keep being you. Keep calm and make sure it's obvious you're the good guy. It'll be okay."

"Yeah…I don't know…" Mark flopped back in the chair and let his hands drop helplessly onto the table.

Megan lifted her hand off of her husband's and rested it on Mark's. He looked down and saw her shiny wedding rings accenting her delicate caramel fingers. She squeezed his palm. He looked up into her eyes.

"Whatever happens, Mark, we've got your back. Let them talk to us. Let them talk to me. I'll tell them what kind of man you are. I'll tell them how you saved my husband's life. I'll tell them the truth."

Mark nodded uncertainly. "You really think it'll be okay?"

"It'll probably be scary for a while, but I think it'll be okay. I'm not an expert or anything, but I think this is a pretty open-and-shut situation."

Mark nodded again. "Okay."

He took his hand from hers and leaned forward, resting his forehead in his palm again. "What am I gonna tell Molly?"

"That's easy, Mark." Megan said quickly. "Tell her the truth. She's not going to want to do anything but support you."

"I just…I don't want her to think…that stuff about me. You know? Even if it's bullshit. I don't want the idea that I'd…I just don't want it in her head." Mark sighed.

Megan was confused. "You don't think she'll believe you?"

"No, I think she'll believe me. I just don't want to be on the ropes around her, you know? I don't want her to see me like this."

"Like what?"

"Like this. You know…all scared and not knowing what to do and shit. I don't want her to see me like that."

"You think she'll think less of you?"

Mark didn't answer.

"I get it," Jared offered. "You don't want your woman to see you weak. But good women don't think like that, man. Trust me. I know."

"Yeah," Megan continued, "I think you've got the wrong idea about my tribe, Mark. We don't really keep score. I think anyone wants to be seen as vulnerable or less than our best, but when you love someone, they actually like that part. It can bond you, you know? When Jared and I started sleeping together, I used to set my alarm so I could get up and fix my hair and use mouthwash before he woke up. Now…fuck that…I'm sleeping in. And it turns out he likes when my hair's messy."

Mark broke into a smile. "Alright. I don't love it, but I believe you I guess. So how do I tell her? Like, for real?"

"I don't think it matters," Megan answered. "When you're ready to tell her, just be honest. Actually, she'll probably sense something's up immediately. You're bad at hiding when you're upset. So don't put it off."

"How do you know she'll know?"

"Uhh, hello?" Megan made a sarcastic face. "How long before she found your bullet scars and called bullshit on your story about "someone in the platoon" getting shot, Mark? She's obviously not dumb. You're going to act different around her, and she's going to figure it out immediately. And if you don't tell her soon, she'll think you're acting differently because she did something wrong. And that will cause problems. So don't wait too long."

Mark nodded. "Okay. I could see that."

"When are you seeing her again?" Jared asked.

"Friday night. We're meeting halfway between her place and here since she has to be back for a shift Saturday night."

"That's when you tell her, then." Megan said confidently. "And listen to me, Mark…" she tucked her chin and looked under her eyebrows at him to emphasize intense eye contact. "You listening?"

Mark nodded.

"It'll be fine. She's going to be on your side. Might even get some sympathy sex out of it."

Mark scrunched his face up. "Sympathy sex? What?"

"Oh, dude…" Jared interjected. "You've never had sympathy sex before…dude…oh, dude…shit…I'm actually jealous."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Since you've been a pump-and-dump player your whole life," Megan explained, smirking, "let me explain something to you. When you're with a woman that you actually like, and the two of you actually develop real feelings, things change. And feelings make sex better. Okay? You accept that premise?"

Mark chuckled. "Okay, I'll buy it. So Molly gets feelings and it makes sex better? I'm pretty sure we have feelings already."

"No, dude…you have no idea…it's like…" Jared struggled to find words.

Megan grinned impishly. "She's gonna feel some specific things here, Mark. She's gonna want to defend you, and then she's gonna want to take care of you. So she's gonna feel possessive and nurturing at the same time. Those two things make quite the cocktail of affection."

Mark laughed out loud. "You serious? This is a real thing?"

"Fuck yeah it is, dude," Jared said excitedly. "Remember how I had that black eye coming out of boot camp? When Staff Sergeant G popped me in the eye right after the final drill? So after graduation, I go home on leave. That was when Meg and I were dating, she couldn't make it to graduation…so I didn't see her until I get home…I walk in the door after coming home from the airport, I'm in uniform, she sees the black eye, and…"

"What?" Mark scrunched up his face again, looking at Megan.

"Well, I mean…we're married now."

"Bullshit…" Mark retorted, grinning.

"Seriously dude. After the way she took care of me…mmm…I just had to lock that down.

"Believe it big guy…" Megan laughed. "I wouldn't let him move until I was sure I'd taken care of him in every way I could think of." She blushed and shook her head, embarrassed at the confession. "I don't know what it is. Maternal instinct or something. But actually not. But kinda. Mate instinct? I don't know. But…it's something. Protective and nurturing instincts. I'm telling you, It's a potent cocktail."

"No shit…" Mark said thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm thinking about this the wrong way…"

"Yeah, you are." Megan answered matter-of-factly. "Honestly, I'm feeling it right now. If you weren't with Molly, I'd be giving you the most tender sympathy fuck tonight…Oh my god, you have no idea."

Jared's face reddened and Mark's head jerked back slightly, surprised.

"No shit…seriously?"

"Believe it, Achilles. I'm not your girlfriend, but I do care about you. Alot. I'm feeling pretty protective of you right now. And even though I'm not your girlfriend, I am your friend, and we've had some benefits. And since we've crossed that line," she settled her gaze into Mark's bewildered eyes, pausing for effect.

Mark raised his eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

She paused and took a drink, then set it down and looked into his eyes again. "If you needed me right now…god…I'd take care of you." She ran her fingertip around the tip of her glass, holding his eyes. "All I can think about right now is making it all better…"

She bopped him gently on the nose with her index finger.

"You're missing out, Achilles."

Mark nodded silently, his eyes wide in sustained surprise.

"Well…" Mark paused to clear his throat. "…that changes things a little bit. I may have the wrong attitude about telling Molly."

Megan giggled and looked down at the table, hiding behind her dark hair.

It didn't completely hide the blush in her cheeks.

They sat quietly, nursing their remaining drinks for a few moments, until Jared broke the silence.

"So if he's not gonna take the sympathy sex, can I have it?"

Megan punched his arm, grinning through her blush.

* * *

J: Hey

D: Hey yourself! How was your day?

J: Okay. Kinda boring.

Jordan had flopped down on her bed in her pajamas after eating a vegetarian microwave dinner. She had promised herself that she would keep drafting the next section of her dissertation after she ate, but her brain was fried and her body exhausted. She just wanted to lay down and chat with her husband. He couldn't talk though, he was already at work. So she had to settle with texting.

Her phone buzzed with David's next response.

D: What did you do?

J: Mostly reading. Didn't get a ton of writing done.

D: How are you feeling?

J: Honestly a little stressed. I always stress on days that I can't get much down on paper.

D: But you're not behind, right?"

J: That's the thing. I can't tell, I've never done a dissertation before. Some days I get a ton done, some days I get nothing. It's hard to plan and hit benchmarks that way.

D: That would drive me crazy.

J: Oh, yes it would, lol. You would absolutely lose your mind in the endless nebula of academic work. Vague deadlines, no real directions or parameters. We all chart our own course, and who knows where we're going?

D: I don't know how you do it.

J: Lol. Where are you tonight?

D: Well my jetlag is definitely reminding me. It's actually morning in Nagoya.

J: Nagoya! What's it like?

D: Not sure, I've only seen the port… But it seems cool. Everywhere I go I wish I could bring you along to see it.

J: Aww…baby! 🥰

D: I know, it's corny

J: It's not corny! It's sweet. I love that you think of me.

D: I think about you literally all the time, Jo. You're my whole world.

J: 🥰🥰🥰

D: I'm sorry you're stressed, honey. You should get a massage or something.

J: Yeah, right…Just take a spa day. At the free spa they have for all the grad students.

D: I'm serious! We're doing okay now. I've got this job, and the business is still doing well. Have you checked our bank account lately?

J: No, that's your thing. You know I hate doing money management stuff…and you're the genius at it.

D: Take a look real quick.

Jordan opened the banking app on her phone and opened their joint account page.

Her eyes bugged. She swiped back to her text conversation with David.

J: Baby…is this real?

D:
D: Yeah, it's real. We're having a good first year with the business. Turns out those sheriff's department vehicles are a gold mine, we've got three mechanics doing major stuff pretty much every day for them. And the rest of the contracts are doing their thing. Hamad's keeping it going. And we got the first two paychecks for the Maersk job. So things are going okay.

Jordan didn't know how to respond. She had a flash of memory, back when she was standing at eye level with the kitchen table, watching her mom and dad emptying the collection plates after Easter services.

A literal pile of money. The biggest haul of the year except Christmas. It was always exciting to see, but she always remembered the worried look on her mom's face as they counted it.

Pastor Simms' rural church was not rich. His congregants weren't wealthy, and the church itself was modest. The pile of money was always exciting, but they had to make it last, usually for months. It kept the family of five, and the whole church going for the rest of the year.

She snapped out of the memory and looked down at her screen again.

J: That's so great, baby! I'm kinda speechless.

D: Well, the point is, you can get a massage if you want. We can afford it.

Jordan wasn't sure. She didn't know how to respond. She couldn't waste money like that. Didn't they have to make it last?

D: Jo? You there?

J: Yeah baby, I'm here. I'm just…really impressed and grateful, I guess. You're just…

D: What?

J: You're a really impressive man, and I'm happy to be your wife. You're a really good provider. And I don't really need my man to be a good provider, but you are. And I'm really grateful. So thank you.

She watched as three dots flickered while David responded. The flickering stopped for a moment, then started again.

D: That's really cool to hear, Jo. You make me feel good. You always make me feel good, but this makes me feel good.

J:
J: You make me feel good too, baby. I kinda want to jump your bones right now, honestly. But that'll have to wait, I guess.

D: Aww, now you got me all flustered. I won't be able to stand for a little while. Thinking about my woman getting naughty.

J: I'll get naughty for you, babe. Name the time. Want me to get naughty for you now?

D: 🥵

Jordan blushed, looking back at the bank statement before closing the app.

J:

D: You serious?

J: Well, I don't want to distract you at work…

D: I do! I want that!

J:
J: Okay mister business genius man…what can I do to tickle your fancy?

D: OMG, even reading that…🥵

J: 🥰
J: I love driving you crazy…
J: Come on, baby. Tell me what to do to drive you crazy…

D: Okay…
D: What are you wearing?

Jordan looked down at her fluffy gray pajamas. She thought about lying. Then she thought again.

J: My fluffies. The gray ones. But I can change if you want?

D: No, don't change. Panties?

J: Yeah, I'm wearing granny panties, lol. Sorry, not very exciting…

D: They would be if you slipped them off?

J: Ooooh. Is that an order?

D: That's a request…

J: Well, since my husband is such a good provider, I'll honor his request.

D: Okay, I definitely can't stand up right now. I hope no one comes in here.

Jordan giggled as she set her phone down and wiggled out of her pajama bottoms, pulling her panties down with them. She flung them over the edge of the bed, then stretched out her uncovered legs, sliding them under the cool sheets, savoring the feeling on her skin.

J: Okay, I have nothing on from the waist down. Any more requests?

She smiled to herself as she waited for his response. He didn't answer right away.

Jordan waited, her smile slowly fading as it was clear David was distracted.

She rolled onto her side and began scrolling through instagram.

A few minutes passed. She opened her text messages again. No response.

J: David?

A few more minutes passed. Jordan checked the news on her phone, then checked her texts again. A tight but deep sense of irritation seemed to grip her. Not enough to be outright hostile, but just enough that as she stood up to go to the bathroom, she picked up her panties and pajama bottoms with jerky, slightly exaggerated motions. When she pulled her bottoms up, she let the waistband snap in place hard enough to make an irritated sound, then moved toward the bathroom with the hint of a huff slipping out under her breath.

When she got back to her bed, David had responded.

D: Hey, Jo, I know this is terrible timing, but they scheduled someone to take me to look at the cranes, and I have to go with them. They're really punctual over here. I'll talk to you tonight, sleep well!

Jordan's huffed sigh was audible as she drafted a response, then deleted it, then drafted another. Finally she landed on

J: That's okay, baby, I totally understand. I'll talk to you tonight/tomorrow morning, my time. Just call me when you're ready!

Sighing audibly once again, Jordan turned off her phone and set it on her nightstand. Then, turning off the light, she slid under the sheets and laid still, her eyes open uncomfortably to the solitary dark of the bedroom.

* * *

A tight, neat, and floppy dangle of bright red hair hung in a ponytail and rested on Molly's pale left shoulder. The ruby curve of shiny hair emerged neatly from a bunched hair tie. It dipped and swayed in a steady rhythm, the ponytail tensing and slackening as the angle of her head moved.

An observer entering the room would have seen haste in the intimacy. Both Mark and Molly were still clothed, although Molly's shirt bore the ruffled signs of enthusiastic groping on both the front and the back. Other than that, she was decent–even modestly dressed by mainstream American standards–in a serviceable pair of jeans and a forest green T-shirt.

Mark, too, was nearly completely clothed. Having unexpected platoon sergeant duties that kept him late on a Friday, he hopped into his rusty 4Runner an hour later than planned, and had no time to change. As a result, Molly had gotten to the hotel first and checked in a few moments before he had arrived. Mark simply carried his bag with him and walked into the hotel room in his desert camouflage uniform of the day.

The lewd dimension of the lovers was defined entirely by their respective postures, and in the synergistic aesthetic of those postures in relation to one another. Mark was seated in a chair near the small round breakfast table on one side of the room. Molly knelt comfortably between Mark's open legs, her tight bum resting on the heels of her sneakers. Her body leaned forward in a mild hunch, her head down in diligent attention.

The small slurping sounds that were incidental to the act had a funny way of focusing Mark. His thick cock, pulled hastily out of his unbuttoned camouflage trousers, had begun to tighten as soon as Molly threw her arms around him when he walked through the door. By the time their kisses involved the play of tongues, he was sufficiently erect to take his lover. And when he had sat down to unlace his boots, Molly had interrupted by kneeling between his legs, unbuttoning his fly and pulling his cock out of his boxer shorts.

She had hummed in delight when she found a soft-white bead of semen already emerging from the tip of his cock.

Molly took it as a sign and eagerly licked it and sucked the tip of Mark's cock to pull and savor any more excitement he might offer her in this early stage of their date. Then, unprompted, she smiled up at him, gathered her hair in a grip, and slipped a hair tie to secure it into a ponytail. Then, smiling again, she gently kissed both of Mark's thighs through his uniform pants a half dozen times, gripped the base of his manhood with her left hand while resting her right palm flat on his left thigh, and began to eagerly suck his cock.

It was a nice way to start the weekend.

Molly still had her wedding ring on this time. Probably since they were meeting an hour away from the base, she didn't anticipate meeting any of his friends, and therefore didn't need to keep up the bachelorette charade. Or, possibly, she just forgot to remove it in her enthusiasm to meet him.

Slirp…slorp…

The investigators from JAG were supposed to interview him on Monday morning. Apparently they took this whole bullshit charge pretty seriously. He intended to tell Molly about it, but he had her tonight and tomorrow. He would probably tell her tomorrow morning. Maybe at breakfast, after they had connected physically a few times.

Mark struggled to concentrate as the snug, warm moisture of Molly's attentions sent a stream of pleasure down his length and into his body.

Best to just relax and let this go.

Molly was bobbing up and down, passing her soft lips past the corona gently but quickly, with occasional pauses where she would dive down in an attempt to welcome the head of his cock past the soft tissue of her back palate and tease the threshold of her throat.

It felt amazing. Each time, he would savor the feeling of her soft lips more than halfway down his shaft, stretched and snug, with her tongue wagging playfully along the length of the underside. The hypersensitivities ringing around the head of his cock were sweetly embraced by the soft tissues in the very back of her mouth. She seemed eager to take him as deeply as possible, taking great care to hold her jaw open wide enough so as not nick his skin with her teeth.

Mark groaned and began to flip her ponytail back and forth, savoring the feeling of her silky red hair between the palm of his hand and the tip of his fingers.

Molly pulled her head back, Mark's wet cock falling back toward his body as she straightened her back and neck, looking up toward her lover.

"What's wrong?"

"What? Nothing. You're doing great…"

Molly shook her head. "Something's wrong. You were tense when you got here, and you're not relaxing. And you're starting to go soft. What's up? Am I doing something wrong?"

"No way," Mark rumbled, smiling down at her. "You're doing great…"

Molly gave him a wary look before taking him in her mouth again. Mark's head dropped back, savoring the feeling.

Bzzzz

Molly's phone buzzed on the floor next to her right knee. She stopped and checked, then put it down.

"What's up?" Mark asked. "You need to take that?"

"It's Chris," she said, wrapping her hand around his cock again. "He's perving out. He wants pictures. It's weird."

Slirp…slorp…

Mark's thoughts drifted back to his meeting with Captain Wolfe earlier that day. Lieutenant Macintosh had been reassigned to company headquarters, and Mark was running the platoon entirely on his own. Jared had pointed out that fact as evidence that the Captain was probably taking Mark's side, although he couldn't say it out loud. If he thought Mark was guilty, he wouldn't have taken Macintosh's platoon leadership, he would have sent Mark back to a desk somewhere. Since that wasn't the case, and Mark was still very much in charge of the platoon, it seemed like a good sign. So when the investigators showed up on Monday…

"Seriously Mark, what's going on?" Molly looked up at him, concerned.

Mark hesitated, remembering his conversation with Megan. He'd hoped to wait to tell her, but she could clearly tell something was bothering him.

He cupped the side of her face in his large hand. "I don't want to ruin our time together."

Molly tilted her head to nestle in the palm of his hand. She looked down at the rigid member gripped in her hand, which was gradually deflating, and frowned.

"Well, whatever's on your mind, you're losing momentum. Which isn't like you, mister Hulk-man."

She climbed on his lap, her jeans neatly straddling his legs, and her face inches above and away from his. She draped her forearms over his shoulders, kissed him slowly with wet lips, then pulled back to look at him.

"So…I'm all for jumping right into bed as soon as we see each other. But I'm also okay asking how your day was first."

Mark smiled. "My day was fine, how was yours?"

"A handful of dumbass motorcycle injuries, a couple premature births, a nasty car accident. Also I ripped my favorite scrub top. Caught it on a hook on the way out of the treatment bay. Oh, and Max is chewing on the back of chairs now in his class, apparently."

Mark nodded. "And you still made it out to see me? I'm impressed. Honored, actually."

She smiled and kissed him again. "Trust me, hunky boy, you're much more medicine than symptom for me. So…really. What's on your mind?"

Mark sighed. "Something came up at work."

"Tell me."

"Remember I told you about my shitbag lieutenant? The guy that was technically in charge of my platoon, but really didn't do anything?"

"Yeah. Is he giving you trouble?"

"You could say that. He's claiming that I deliberately put him in danger, that he got wounded in Afghanistan because of a plan that I came up with. They've started an investigation, and I have to go on record and defend myself on Monday. It could be a career ender."

Molly's eyes dropped and her hand lifted to cover her mouth. "Oh my god, Mark. I'm so sorry. That's awful. Are you scared?"

Mark hesitated, then looked down, avoiding eye contact. She leaned forward and pulled his head into her chest.

"You don't have to say anything," she whispered into his ear.

"I don't know what to do," Mark muffled in response. "I prepared for so many things in combat–but they never tell you about this stuff."

Molly leaned back so he could look up at her. She listened carefully as he explained the facts of the case, trying to hold his voice steady as he gave details. She listened intently, offering encouragement until he was done. He seemed content to sit quietly, embarrassed that he had killed the mood of their meeting.

Molly climbed off his lap and stepped back. She sunk to her knees and carefully unlaced and removed his boots, then pulled his socks off.

"Stand up," she directed quietly. He stood uncertainly, and she carefully unbuttoned and removed his uniform top, folding it neatly and setting it on a dresser. Then she unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down, lifting each foot gently as she pulled them all the way off and folded them neatly on top of the uniform top. She then pulled off her own shirt and pants, folding and setting them next to Mark's clothes. She then stepped close to his body, resting her palms and elbows on his chest as she looked up into his eyes.

"You want to get in bed right away, or do you want to shower first?"

Mark breathed in deeply. "Actually, I could really use a shower. Again, I'm really sorry…"

Molly placed a finger on Mark's lips and shushed him, leading him into the bathroom by the hand. She reached into the shower and turned on the water, then turned around and finished undressing Mark, pulling his shirt over his broad shoulders and pulling his boxers down to reveal his cock hanging heavily down between his legs. Looking up at him again, she unclasped her bra and let it drop onto his boxer shorts, then bent down and slid her panties down to her ankles, stepping out of them.

Turning around, she reached into the shower to test the running water for temperature, then took Mark's hand and stepped inside, pulling him in after her and closing the glass door behind them. Mark began to explore her smooth body with his hands, rubbing her skin all over as she lathered up some body wash and began to wash him.

"Is this okay?" She asked, gently lathering the skin of his chest and working down.

"Yeah…I've never had anyone wash me before."

Molly smiled, continuing downward.

Mark looked between them as she worked the lather over his body. "I like how you shave your pussy…I think that's hot."

Molly looked up at him as she continued lathering. "I'm glad you like it. I do it for you."

"Really? That's even hotter."

Molly smiled again, reaching up under his armpits and then clutching each of his forearms as she lathered up and down his long arms.

"You want to touch it?" She asked innocently.

Mark leaned down and slipped his hand between her legs, cupping her bare crotch in his hands.

"God, it's so smooth. Your skin, Mol…damn…"

"I got a wax yesterday before my shift."

"You did that for me?"

Molly nodded.

"Sounds like that would hurt. Like, a lot."

Molly giggled.

"Oooh, my strawberry-top baby goin' all out for her man…I'm gonna reward that effort…" Mark said playfully, cupping her vagina and feeling her soft, smooth skin against his palm.

She purred, beaming in pleasure.

He was starting to feel better.

Mark gripped her arms and began to move her into position. Molly resisted and gently slapped his hands away, shaking her head. "Nope. Not tonight, Sergeant Hard-body."

Mark squinted, confused. "What? Why not?"

Molly turned him around to face away from her, and began lathering up the top of his back, moving slowly across the wide breadth of his shoulders.

"Ever since we met on the beach, you've been taking care of me." Molly rested her cheek against the muscular contours of his back. "And you've done quite a good job, I have to say. But tonight…I'm going to take care of you. Let me be your little love slave. You just relax and tell me what you need."

Mark grunted as she reached around him and began to lather up his stiffening cock and nethers. He could feel her perky breasts pressed against his back as she fondled him. Her face nuzzled in the crease of his back, affectionately signaling both her willing presence and her desire for deep physical intimacy.

It was exactly what he needed. He felt his body begin to relax.

Once she had rinsed him off, she began to wash herself, visually encouraging him to grope and caress her wet, naked body. She giggled as he tweaked and caressed her breasts, purred as he rubbed her back, and began to moan in excitement as he explored between her legs. Once she finished cleaning herself, she turned off the shower, then pulled a towel off the rack to carefully dry him from head to toe. Then she dried herself, making eyes at him while she squeezed her now darkened red hair off in the shower and stepped out, leading Mark back out the door and into bed.

She gently positioned him on his back, then threw her leg over his waist, sitting back so that the length of his erect cock, resting on his stomach, was cradled in the moist fold between her lower lips. She smiled warmly and leaned down to lay on top of him, kissing him gently. Then, looking deep into his eyes, she waited for him to speak.

Mark was both surprised and delighted, but shockingly calm. Molly's insistent gentle touch had turned the cataract of anxiety and dread that balled up in his chest into a placid lake of calm affection. Her pale, naked body rested comfortably on his; her soft, warm skin cradling the insecurity he didn't dare show, and promising love that would flower both in and through his vulnerability.

Mark's breathing slowed. His muscles began to relax. Molly took her cue.

She reached between their two bodies and lined up his now-rigid cock with her opening. Once his thick tip was poised and pressured in her opening, she slid her body downward in several small stages, eventually taking his full length into her body.

Mark experienced a warmth he'd never before experienced–one of gentle affection and acceptance rather than animalistic need. Molly had provided hints of that kind of affection before, as her style of sex always included that feeling at some point. She was, after all, a naturally affectionate and nurturing woman.

But now, sensing his emotional need, Molly was in her element.

She stretched her body to maximize skin contact between her lover and herself, holding him close as her hips moved gently, maximizing the friction of their coupling while minimizing the distance between their skin that such motions threatened when that coupling inevitably became more desperate and vigorous.

Mark's sharp vision descended into soft focus. The damp ropes of Molly's dark red hair draped around his face as she planted deep kiss after deep kiss, interspersed with small kisses around his cheeks, jaw, and neck. Mark wrapped his long, thick arms around Molly's narrow back, holding her close. The gentle motions of her hips were drawing extremes of pleasure from his otherwise motionless body.

"I'm gonna cum, Mol…" He whispered.

She whispered back.

"I know. I want you to."

"You didn't cum yet."

"I will. Don't worry." Her delicate whisper connected directly with his ear, the hushed sound of her words like a gentle wind inside his head that then moved the rest of his body to tingling excitation. "Just give it to me. Let me take it. I want your cum inside me."

Mark's grunt was deep, leveling out into a long groan that rumbled Molly's chest in sympathy with his. His toes, calves, and buttocks tensed, and he felt his body eject, in addition to the tension, worry, and insecurity he had been carrying all week, copious amounts of thick semen deep into the warm, affectionate welcome of Molly's body.

She slowed the motions of her hips as she felt his body twitch with the ripple of his release, then simply held still.

Mark and Molly lay still for several minutes, naked on the bedspread, their arms tightly around each other, still fully coupled. Molly seemed unwilling to let him pull out of her body. Mark seemed unwilling to leave.

Eventually Mark spoke.

"That was incredible, Molly. I've never had a woman do that for me."

Molly kissed his cheek gently, still whispering in his ear. "I'm glad to hear it. But I'm just getting started. Don't move. Just let me hold you inside me…"

* * *

8:08 PM, Japan Standard Time.

A weary David Stark flopped onto the small, comfortable bed in the Nagoya hotel. He had been dragged all over the dock by polite salarymen, eager to demonstrate efficiency and clearly hoping to get a glowing review in his reports.

He had been unprepared for this part of the job–the cultural differences from location to location and from country to country. The previous tour of American locations had been met with wary hostility–longshoremen, rail engineers, and switchyard managers who were convinced they knew the best way to do things and suspicious of a young interloper evaluating them. Here, the amount of polite deference he encountered threw him onto his back foot, and he had been unsure of how best to interact with the personnel here when they would only show him the shiniest parts of their operation.

This had resulted in walking back and forth through the huge shipping area, combing every square inch and taking careful notes while trying to match the politeness of his hosts. All the while trying to gently nudge them in other directions so he could inspect what he wanted to inspect.

He was exhausted.

To top it off, he had started the tour with the horribly awkward conundrum of hiding an erection pressing against his slacks. A conundrum he had not had to fight back since junior high school.

He pulled out his phone and opened his last text chain with Jordan, reading her last messages.

J: Well, since my husband is such a good provider, I'll honor his request.

His heart skipped a beat. His mind's eye saw his wife scrunching her knees up to her chin and rolling back, slipping her pajamas and panties off, exposing her tight bottom, then kicking her clothes off and letting her legs flop back down onto the bed.

In his mind's eye, he saw her smiling playfully at her phone–meaning smiling virtually at him–from the bed, her furry crotch exposed to the elements. Her posture was docile, her eyes sparkling with impish anticipation, her hand gracefully moving down and slipping between her closed legs.

He read further.

D: Okay, I definitely can't stand upright now.

Now a shot to real-world memory, as a knock on the door behind him jolted him out of his flustered state. He stood up jerkily, ramrod straight, and then fumbled to shift the small tent in his pants to lie as flat as possible, then opened the door, still trying to conceal his shame.

It had been Mr. Takahara, his assigned translator, who had arrived to take him around the port.

He didn't even see the next line of text from Jordan, until his next response, sent hastily as he was walking awkwardly down the hallway to begin his tour.

He now reviewed her next line, and it sent a jolt of electricity through his body.

J: Okay, I have nothing on from the waist down. Any more requests?

He could hear that silky mezzo-soprano voice in his mind, dripping with sultry invitation. He imagined her index finger hanging playfully off her lip as her other hand began to move gently between her legs.

David began to unbutton his shirt, then undo his pants, wiggling out of them. Stripped down to his underwear, he fished his small erection out from the elastic folds and began to stroke himself between his index finger and thumb. He initially wasn't drawn to the text that followed, but as the electric warmth began to radiate down from the pinch of his fingers into his body, his imagination seized the line.

J: David?

David imagined his wife staring happily at the phone as they engaged in their back-and-forth. He imagined her rubbing herself, her eyes intermittently closing with a warm smile of pleasure. He imagined her waiting for his response.

He imagined the first row of knuckles on her hand rising and falling sensually, drawing her fingers in and out of the tight pinch of her legs, moving a petite clump of hair pubic hair in sympathetic motion. When no response came, he imagined she would look at the phone and scowl slightly. Her hand would slow the tempo of movement.

He imagined a high alto squeak of indignation as the flow of her arousal was interrupted because of his delayed response. He imagined that her indignation grew while he was half a world away, darting about trying to find his suit jacket and not reveal the small but rigid erection that was pressing against the fabric of his pants.

He imagined that, halfway across the world in their quiet of their shared bedroom, Jordan's indignation found an unnamed inclination–a preverbal formulation of her own desires and his own inability to meet them.

He imagined that warm mixture of Jordan's indignation and inclination fumbling about until they found a descriptive word in her mind, and a definition to follow that word.

What word would form in her mind to describe her situation?

Needs.

Noun.

1) Circumstances requiring a certain course of action. Necessity.

2) A thing that is wanted or required.

3) The state of requiring help, aid, or assistance; a lack of basic necessity.

David imagined Jordan finding a name for the nameless hunger that he had awakened between her legs.

A need that had been awakened, teased, then neglected.

He imagined that once she had named the feeling, once she had applied her prodigious verbal acuity to defining the term that she had applied to that feeling, that she would then apply her tremendous logical acuity to address the now-named feeling on its own terms.

Her…needs. Something requiring a certain course of action. As requiring help, aid, or assistance.

As the requirement of help to address a necessity.

He imagined her rolling to her side and deducing the most expedient course of action. With her husband on the other side of the world, and not even meeting the barest of her needs by answering her saucy texts, she would open the contacts on her phone, select one of them, and summon the requisite help, aid, or assistance. To address the necessity.

David un-pinched his rigid little member and jumped off the bed, squatting down to dig into his suitcase. Sweeping open a space on the bottom, he unzipped the backing and reached into the secret compartment, pulling out a small plastic package. Tearing it open, he then kicked his shoes off and awkwardly danced his pants off from around his ankles. Then, reaching into the package, he unfolded and slipped on a lace pair of women's panties, savoring the cool feeling of new fabric spread across his bottom. Looking down, his heart skipped again as he saw the lace subtly obscure the rigid protuberance that tented the front of the fabric.

He ran back and laid on the bed, picking up the phone and looking at that deliciously ambiguous last text:

J: David?

He imagined the call made, and a knock on their apartment door following shortly. She imagined Jordan, still bottomless and with flushed cheeks, running to answer the door.

He imagined a faceless man in the doorway. Tall, broad shouldered. Stepping into the apartment as Jordan smiled shyly and thanked him for coming.

David reached into his panties and pinched himself again, reveling in the thrill as he resumed masturbating.

Gently, he reminded himself. He was sensitive when he got this excited, and had had to be careful and avoid ruining the reverie by being too eager…

He imagined Jordan gently taking the man's hand and leading him back to the bedroom, the man looking down to admire her bare bottom as it peeked out from the draped hem of her fluffy gray pajama top.

He imagined her gently pushing open the bedroom door, and the man following…

bzzz

bzzz

bzzz

David's left hand vibrated, and a new call blocked out the text chain and interrupted the fantasy.

Shit.

It was a FaceTime call.

From Hamad.

They had planned an 8AM business meeting call to discuss acquiring a wholesale parts inventory. They were losing money buying parts piecemeal, and Clint, the new business manager, had lined up a potential supplier. It could be a great way to widen their profit margins a little more. David had agreed to the meeting the day before, but given the extreme time difference, this was the only time he could make it work.

It was 9PM JST. 8AM EST.

David shuffled to slip his dress pants over his panties, hastily buttoning and tucking in his button-down shirt and smoothing out his mussy hair and clearing his throat before answering.

"Hamad! Clint! How's it going?"

* * *

"Sergeant Rein. Thank you for coming."

A marine captain in his professional service uniform extended his hand across a conference room table. Mark reached across and shook it.

"Good morning sir…" Mark mumbled, flummoxed. The officer, accompanied by an assistant and a digital recorder on the table, motioned toward a chair.

Once everyone was seated, the officer spoke first.

"Sergeant Rein, I have reviewed your fitness and after action reports, and I've spoken to several of your superiors. With one exception, you seem to be quite highly regarded in your unit. I don't think you have much to worry about from this investigation. Just tell me what you remember, and give as much detail as you can remember. If you want an attorney to sit with you, I can arrange that."

Mark nodded warily, mumbling in agreement.

"Would you like to avail yourself of legal counsel?"

Mark shook his head quietly.

"Okay. That will speed things up. Let's begin." The assistant started the recorder.

"Sergeant, could you describe your working relationship with Lieutenant Macintosh?"

Mark took a deep breath. "Lieutenant Macintosh was my platoon commander in the workup and during the deployment. I was the platoon sergeant. That's our relationship."

"I understand that. Could you give me a sense of how well you two worked together?"

"I'm not sure what you want me to say. He pretty much had me run everything."

"Everything?"

Mark shrugged. "Yeah."

"Can you give me a comparison between an average day for you and an average day for the lieutenant during the deployment?"

"Sure…" Mark hemmed in apprehension. "Uh, I'd get up with the shift change for guard posts at 6, earlier if something happened in the night. I'd check security, write the plan of the day including guard shifts and patrols, do inspections, usually go on squad patrols, come back, check in with guard shifts, check and order supplies, liaise with Charlie Company headquarters, make sure food was ready on time, direct fire missions, and whatever else came up. Lieutenant Macintosh would hang out in his cot and watch movies on his laptop. Sometimes he would go on patrols, but he usually got in the way. I think he knew that, so he kinda hung back."

"Interesting. That's quite a contrast. And that's a big job to do on your own. Did you have any help?"

"About a month into the deployment I tapped one of my squad leaders to be my number 2. He helped run the day to day alot."

"Who was that?"

"Corporal Jared Poisson."

The officer wrote in his notebook. "And how involved was he? Did he do everything you did?"

"Pretty much," Mark smiled proudly. "When I was out for a few days, he stepped up as platoon sergeant. He would have done it for the rest of the deployment if I'd gone home like they wanted me to."

The officer furrowed his eyebrows slightly. "What do you mean like they wanted to?"

Mark stopped himself. "I mean…I don't know."

The officer leaned forward in his chair. "I'm sorry sergeant, I'm just not familiar with any orders to send you home. Could you tell me more about that?"

Mark's fingers tapped his thigh nervously. "Uh, there was a firefight. I got shot, and they said they might send me home, but…then they didn't."

"I know you were wounded, I wasn't aware you had orders home. What changed?"

Mark paused. "The wound wasn't that bad. My arm was pretty much healed in like a week. At least so I could use it again. And the shot in my jaw wasn't deep. So it was just a bandage. So I went back out."

The officer nodded, writing down more notes. "Thank you. I didn't know that part. Now tell me, this number 2 man. Was he involved in planning? Patrol routes, guard rotations, things like that?"

"I mean, yeah. I always talked to him before I finalized a plan."

"Would you talk to Lieutenant Macintosh?"

"I mean…not really."

"Why not?"

Mark shifted in his seat. "Do I need a lawyer?"

The officer smiled and shook his head. "If you want one, but we're almost done already. No need to slow the process down."

Mark sat up straight.

"So…" the officer continued, "why wouldn't you clear plans with Lieutenant Macintosh?"

Mark cleared his throat, thinking. "He…I don't think he wanted the responsibility. If I did tell him, he'd usually just tell me that whatever I wanted to do was fine. Then if it worked, he'd tell Captain Wolfe it was his idea. If it didn't work, he'd tell him it was my idea. I didn't care either way, I just didn't want him fucking…um…messing things up."

The officer smiled. "Did you two argue much?"

Mark shrugged. "I mean…not really. He just wanted to be left alone, I think. I don't really know. But if I just sort of handled things, he was usually pretty chill. And if he was chill, I was chill. He gave me room to run things, and I gave him room to kind of hide and take credit for it. It worked for us. At least until now, I guess."

The officer was scribbling quickly on his pad on the desk, clearly trying to keep up. After he finished, he clicked the pen closed and set it down on the pad, leaning back in his chair.

"Let's get to the village clearing operation. Did Lieutenant Macintosh participate in the planning of that operation at all?"

"No."

"Did he attend company level briefings prior to the planning of the mission?"

"I don't know."

"Guess."

"I'm gonna say no. I was representing the platoon at company briefings by then. But I don't remember for sure."

"Why were you representing the platoon at company briefings?"

"Captain Wolfe told me to. Battalion level briefings too. Specifically for that mission."

"So Captain Wolfe knew you were planning the mission?"

"Yeah, he definitely knew that."

"So you take responsibility for the planning and execution of that mission?"

"Yes."

"Does taking responsibility include the deaths and injuries that occurred?"

Mark swallowed, then paused. "Yes."

"Was your number two man…" He leaned down to check his notes. "Corporal Poisson…was he involved in the planning of that mission?"

Mark saw the trap and shut his mouth quickly. Sensing the rapid shift in trust, the officer softened his stance.

"Sergeant, I understand how this must look from where you're sitting. I promise I'm not out to get you. I'm just trying to get a solid timeline of all events. This will help clear you. And your friend."

Mark shifted uncomfortably again.

"So I'll ask again. Was Corporal Poisson involved in the planning of that mission?"

Mark clenched his jaw for a moment, then folded his arms. "No. Not really. I informed him of the details before the rest of the platoon, but he had no input in the planning. That was all me. I take full responsibility for all of it."

"Did you ask for his input?"

Mark hesitated. "No."

"Did you usually ask him for input when planning missions or patrols?"

Mark shook his head. "That's not how we work. If he thinks I need to know something, he just tells me. Otherwise, he just follows orders."

"So in this case, did he give any input without being asked? Following your dynamic?"

Mark clenched his jaw again. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"No. I don't actually remember. But if he did give input, it didn't change the plan. The mission was planned and executed by me, top to bottom."

The officer picked up the pen again and clicked it open, writing more notes. Mark tensed further in the silence.

"We're almost done here, sergeant. One more question about the clearing operation. Did you deviate from your plan after the mission commenced?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Mark's ears began to ring. It was so quiet he didn't notice it, but it grew as he formulated his thoughts. He felt his heart begin to pound. He began to feel like there was dust in his throat. He closed his eyes.

"The enemy started shooting sooner than we anticipated," he said at length. "We broke formation and ran for cover. Since we were farther out than we planned, we spread out too quickly and hit a couple of IEDs."

"And that was where Lieutenant Macintosh was wounded."

Mark grunted, then nodded grudgingly.

The officer wrote more, waiting for Mark to continue.

He didn't.

"So, correct me if I misunderstand you. You had planned a certain movement to the target area, the enemy engaged earlier than you anticipated and the resulting break in formation led to injuries?"

"Yes."

"Was Lieutenant Macintosh the only one injured in that movement?"

"No. In fact, one of my marines was killed. Lieutenant Macintosh's injuries were…minor."

The captain nodded. "So the injuries would not have happened if you had been able to stick to the original plan?"

Mark clenched his jaw.

"I don't know. I think so."

The officer nodded, still scribbling.

Mark's breathing was getting shallower. He noticed he was sweating. He began to smell ripe poppy, and he had a vague sense that the soft moon-dust of Kandahar was beneath his feet. He tapped his thigh to check that his pistol was secure and found that it was missing. In fact, his knee pads were gone, and he wasn't wearing boots. His pants were…dress pants? He began to panic. His heart began to pound audibly. He reached up to his shoulder to find his radio handset and only touched the smooth khaki of his dress shirt. He let his hand fall down his shirt, then began patting his body, suddenly aware that it wasn't just his pistol and radio. All of his combat gear was missing. All of it. He was naked. Defenseless.

"Sergeant?"

Mark snapped back to see the officer looking at him with his eyebrow raised. He didn't recognize where he was for a moment.

"Sup? I mean…what? I mean…I'm sorry, sir. Could you repeat the question?"

The officer looked him up and down for a moment.

"Are you alright, sergeant?"

Mark nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Yeah, I'm fine. Ask your questions."

The officer nodded, clearly thrown by the change in Mark's demeanor. He hesitated before continuing.

"I think we've covered the incident itself. And I think I'm satisfied in your description of your working relationship with Lieutenant Macintosh. But I did want to give you an opportunity to respond to one other specific allegation before we wrap up."

Mark cleared his throat. His ears were still ringing, and he was still slightly unsure of where he was. He shook his head, trying to hide his disorientation.

"Are you sure you're okay, sergeant? Do you want to take a break? Can we get you some water or something?"

Mark shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Very well. Well, here it is. It has been alleged that you have a history of threatening and assaulting Lieutenant Macintosh."

"What?" Mark jerked back in surprise. The suggestion brought him sharply back into the here-and-now of the conference room.

"You deny these allegations?"

"Yeah, I do." His heart began to pound again. His fists clenched. "What did he say happened?"

The officer flipped back a few pages in his pad, checking his notes. "The Lieutenant alleges that at one point you threatened him. That you told him that his body would never be found. After you shoved him across the room."

Mark clenched his teeth, his breathing picking up to match his heart rate. He was really sweating now.

"Do you deny saying that?"

Mark didn't answer, looking down. He remembered two nights before, as Molly focused deeply on his worries, nourishing him with her affections and giving him the depths of her body. Then he remembered the sullen lieutenant trying to steal a peak at Molly's body. Mark's jaw clenched, and his ears began to ring again.

"Sergeant. Think hard. Did you ever shove him, or jostle him really hard? Anything at all that may have been misperceived or exaggerated? You were in a combat zone, things can be misperceived, I understand that. Just tell me if you remember anything like that happening. Anything at all."

Mark shook his head.

"So you deny all of this?"

Mark shook his head. "No," he grunted. "That happened."

The officer's eyes widened.

Mark looked up, defeated.

"Do I need that lawyer now?"

* * *

5:00 PM EST

Jordan dropped her bag off at the empty kitchen table before running to the bathroom. Once she was done, she washed her hands and opened the door to the bedroom, flopping facedown on the bed.

Another long day. Her brain was fried.

She reached for her phone and opened her text chain with David. He had seemed extra gushy this morning. She had received a small burst of lovey-dovey texts from him while she was running on the track at around 9:00 AM.

Which was…

She checked the time zone converter app on her phone.

10:00 PM Japan time.

He must have had a long day, but by the time she got to the texts in the locker room after her run, he had gone to sleep for the night. She didn't want to bother him. He was working so hard.

She now opened the text chain, smiling as she read.

D: Jo?

D: Hey baby, I know it's hard to connect with the time difference and all. I just wanted to apologize for leaving you high and dry this morning–I guess last night for you. Hope you slept well, and I want you to know that you're beautiful and amazing and perfect. And I love you. Text me when you get home from school, hopefully I'll be off by then. Kisses!

Jordan smiled to herself again, and typed a response.

J: Hey you! I'm back from school. Sorry I missed you earlier. And thank you for the sweet message! I'm a lucky woman. Can you talk?

She waited a moment, then saw three dots form as he typed.

D: Stuck in a waiting room, so I can't talk. But I can text for a while!

J: Hey, it's still time spent with my man. I'll take it!

D: How was your day, honey? Did you sleep alright?

J: Yeah, I slept okay. Not great. I toss and turn more when you're not here.

D:
D: That's bad and good, I guess.

J: ?

D: Bad because I'm not there to take care of your needs. Good because you decided you like having a man in bed.

J: I like having YOU in bed, mister.

D: Right. That's what I meant.

J: Sure…

D: Well, I wish I was there too. I don't like hotel beds. But I think I'd like them more if you were in them. In fact, I know I would.

J: Cheesy line.

D: Not if I meant it.

J: 🫠
J: I do miss you, David. I'm much more relaxed when we're together.

D: Me too.

J: I'm not saying you need to quit and come home. But I do miss you.

D: Yeah.

J: "Needs" is a funny word.

D: Yeah, I guess it is.

J: It's weird. I didn't know I needed to snuggle up with you to feel safe at night. Before we got married, I had roommates and stuff, but I slept alone, obviously. Then after we get married, I don't know. I guess I do kinda have needs. But how can they be needs if you don't have them or don't know about them until after? Are they really needs then?

D: Good point.

J: I mean, if I hadn't met you, I'd probably still be sleeping in a twin bed by myself with some annoying roommates. And I'd be fine with it. But now that I've slept with you for a couple of years, I kinda feel like I need that. It's weird.

D: I think that's just how we evolve through life, babe. We find little things that fulfill us, and we discover needs being met that we didn't know about before.

J: I guess. Weird to think about, though.

D: Do you think it's me specifically you need?

J: What?

D: Like, is it me you want to sleep with? Or just someone?

J: David. I thought we'd agreed we don't bring this up anymore.

D: I know, I'm just curious. We can stop.

J: …
J: Okay, you've pried the lid off the worm can. What do you want to know?

D: Jordan, I'm not mad about what we did before. I'm not threatened, either. You know I think it's actually really hot.

J: It's not healthy, David. For either of us. Especially when we're apart like this.

D: I know. And I'll stop if you really want. But I'm curious.

J: Curious about what? What do you want to know, David?

D: Okay, I can see I'm making you mad. Let's drop it.

J: No, you pried the lid off the worm can, David. The worms are out. Ask your question.

D: I'm really sorry, Jordan. I'll back off.

J: You think I'll feel better if I sleep with someone else? That I can just pull a man off the street into bed with me to take care of my "needs?" I'm gonna say no, David. I'm gonna say that a random man in my bed isn't going to make me stop missing you, and isn't going to make me feel safe and happy. It will probably make me feel like crap, actually. Like a whore. Is that what you want?

D: Oh jeez, Jo. I'm really, really sorry. I'm thinking with my dick again.

J: Yeah, you are. And yes, I've been with another man. And you know who it is. And he and I slept together, but we didn't do any actual sleeping. And it felt really, really, really good. But I don't know what it would feel like to fall asleep in Mark's arms, because if I was with him, I wouldn't want to sleep. All I'd want to do is beg him to fuck me again. So there. I know that's what you want to hear. I hope you're happy. Now go jerk off your little dick thinking about what a craven slut your wife is. I'm going to school.

In Nagoya, After hastily excusing himself from the gaggle of salarymen to run to the bathroom, David Stark's body jerked and convulsed in ecstasy as the little bubble of text called him to the most powerful orgasm of his life. As the dazzling, tingling aftershocks began to drain from his limbs, and as he slowly returned to his awareness of place in the small bathroom stall, he became acutely aware that he had broken something that might not be able to fix. He also became acutely aware that he could not hold his wife until this leg of inspections in East Asia was completed.

Two more weeks.

Across the world, David's wife stared angrily at her phone screen for a moment, waiting for her husband to respond. When he didn't, she slapped the phone down on her nightstand with a huff and stomped to the bathroom to shower.

* * *

Sergeant Mark Rein sat despondent in a nylon camp chair on the outer walkway of the third floor of his barracks building, reading outside his barracks room.

The meeting with investigators had gone on longer than he thought. It had included several hasty consultations with his new JAG lawyer, and by the time he returned to the barracks, everyone had been released to liberty.

He had showered and started a load of laundry in the barracks laundry room, then cracked open a beer and sat down to read.

It was definitely dinner time, but he wasn't hungry.

"Whatcha reading?"

Mark turned his head behind him to see Megan standing awkwardly a few feet away. He smiled, grateful to see a friendly face.

"Orlando Furioso. So far it's pretty good."

She walked over and picked it out of his hands, looking at the back cover.

"Never heard of it."

"Yeah, well, it's a nerd thing."

"I'm a nerd. I caught your Briseis reference immediately. Back when we were…that way."

Mark smiled. "Yeah, I guess you did."

She handed the book back. "Shitty day?"

Mark took a deep breath and let out a sigh. "I don't know yet. But it wasn't awesome. Where's your husband?"

"He said he had to stop at someone's room…someone on restriction. I'm sure you know all about it."

Mark nodded. "Yep. Whitey took an extra day off and didn't tell anyone. So…he's having a bad day."

"Yeah, that's what Jared said. Anyway, he said when he was done chewing that kid's ass we should drag you out to see a movie or something. You game?"

"Actually, I think I'm good."

Megan half smiled sadly. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Thanks, though."

Megan walked closer and leaned against the railing. "You tell Molly how your meeting went yet?"

"No, not yet. She doesn't get off her shift until 10."

"You gonna tell me how it went?" She turned her head to look at him.

He shrugged. "Not well."

Megan nodded. "She texted me the other day, you know."

Mark cocked his head. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Did she want to know about…if we…" Mark didn't know how to phrase it.

"No, no worries there, Achilles. I don't think she's the jealous type. And we only hooked up once. I'm no threat to her. She just wanted me to keep an eye on you. I told her I'd be her spy. Gotta make sure you don't go all coocoo for cocoa puffs."

Mark smirked. "Not sure if I like being surveilled."

Megan looked outward, her elbows resting on the railing. "Tough shit, Achilles. That's what happens when people love you." She turned and looked at him again with raised eyebrows. "And you're dealing with a lot of shit right now."

Mark nodded, saying nothing. They stayed silent for a few moments. Mark could hear Jared's voice, somewhat muffled rising from the floor below them, yelling at Lance Corporal White.

Megan snorted. "You guys have the weirdest job sometimes."

Mark snorted back. "Yeah. Yeah, we do sometimes. If I didn't feel all shitty, I'd probably be down there yelling with him."

Megan shook her head, smiling as she looked back out from the railing.

"You get to the part where Bradamante has to rescue Ruggiero?"

Mark cocked his head again. "So you have read Orlando Furioso?"

"Yep. Well, parts of it. I took a medieval and renaissance lit class as part of my major. That book's huge, though. Never did finish it."

"Did you like it?"

"What I read, yeah. I liked the strong women characters, even if they were obviously written by a man. At least he liked the idea of badass bitches, you know? So that part was fun, at least."

"I forgot you were an English major." Mark stood up, suddenly animated. "How have we never talked about books before?"

"I don't know. You're my husband's best friend. I'm your best friend's wife. So we're really just…kind of step-friends or something. We never really talked much, the two of us. Or spent time together, just the two of us. Just that one night."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, we didn't really talk much that night, either."

"Well, unless you count grunts, obscenities and disjointed sentence fragments."

"Well, actually, I do count that," Mark grinned.

Megan laughed again. "But yeah, I know you like to read. If you want to do a book club or whatever, I'm down. Hell, I'll even pick up Orlando Furioso again if you want. Always wanted to finish it."

Mark's face brightened. "Really?"

Megan laughed again, turning her head to see Jared coming up the stairs to meet them. "Yeah, really. Now put your camp chair away, Achilles. You're coming to the movies with us. And after we can get ice cream and argue about Hemingway or something. We'll get you to 10, then you can call Molly…"

[Crushing]

Sergeant Rein picked up his camouflage uniform top, which was neatly folded at the edge of the ground fighting pit. He slipped it on one sleeve at a time, buttoning up the front before replacing his hat. He pulled his phone out of the breast pocket and found a new text message waiting.

From Molly Cohen.

M: Hey, just got off shift. Give me a call when you get a minute. XO.

The message brought a smile to Sergeant Rein's face.

Two months had passed since he had his first disastrous interview with military police investigators. The revelation that he had muscled his superior officer across the room and made threatening statements in Afghanistan had snowballed the investigation into formal charges against him. Mark initially had the option of accepting a lower form of non-judicial punishment, essentially a plea deal to avoid the hassle and potential higher consequences of court martial. He had strongly considered it, wanting the ugly patch to pass so he could move on with his career. However, his assigned defense lawyer seemed convinced that they could win at court martial. After reviewing the facts and evidence of the case, Mark's appointed JAG lawyer was scandalized by the Lieutenant's shady dealings and stolen purple heart award, and he was certain that he could clear Mark's name entirely and expose Lieutenant Macintosh as the fraud he was.

The push that nudged Mark over the top was Megan, who insisted that she couldn't live in a world where the worst man in the unit could humiliate the best man and get away with it. She made a strong case to him that he had earned a place of honor with his long list of accomplishments and an unimpeachable reputation resulting from his actions during deployment. To throw that away would be to back down from defending not only his honor, but his platoon's, and by extension, the honor of her husband and Mark's best friend.

Megan had made a compelling case, and her sentiments were shared by the platoon and the company. Mark even had near strangers slap his back at random–well-wishers from other companies in the battalion who knew his reputation. There was even a rumor that Lieutenant Colonel Chen, himself up for promotion to full Colonel soon, was considering a meritorious promotion once the court martial resolved in his favor. Justice demanded that he stand up for himself. He even had a dream, imagining the stern talking-to he would have gotten from Benny, the aged Marine veteran in his apartment complex that helped raise him. Benny would not have gone down without a fight.

Molly seemed nervous for him, but was unwavering in her support. She vowed to be there for him whatever choice he made, and whatever outcome may result. It was nice to hear, but not surprising, as their relationship was intensifying. Mark's feelings for Molly had deepened to a level he had not before experienced. They talked for an hour or more on the phone nearly every day. They had also continued meeting at least every other weekend for an overnight or weekend stay, making sure to reconnect physically whenever they could.

Molly had also made some surprising moves. In particular, she had decided to devote herself more fully to Mark by being sexually exclusive with him, denying her husband access to her body.

She had explained to Mark a few weeks ago that she and Chris had begun to practice something called "chastity," which Mark had to look up online. He was shocked to find out what it really was. Essentially, Molly restricted her husband from any sexual release by locking his dick in a little plastic cage. Apparently it allowed him to pee but not get an erection. Molly would not touch his penis, but occasionally removed the cage long enough for him to jack off in another room. When he found out about the practice, Mark had asked Molly if she would bar her husband from seeing her naked anymore.

Molly had happily agreed.

It wasn't the storybook romance Mark had expected his real first love to be.

But it was weirdly satisfying. Molly always giggled happily when talking about the arrangement with her husband, and her voice consistently took on a happy warmth in tone at the prospect of reserving her sexuality wholly for Mark. She had complained on occasion about the utter sexual inadequacy of her husband in comparison to her boyfriend. And Mark came to love the idea of establishing himself as top dog in his woman's eyes. And, with the incident with Lieutenant Macintosh serving as a catalyst for his protective feelings, he was becoming increasingly hostile to the idea of any other man seeing, touching, or having his girl.

And, apparently Chris enjoyed the frustration. Which was a bonus. Or at least it helped keep the flow of his relationship with Molly smooth and satisfying. There appeared to be no real downside to the arrangement.

More importantly, Mark saw this as a clear sign that Molly was beginning to reject her husband in favor of him. Whatever weird sexual predilections Chris had, Molly clearly preferred Mark in her life, in her bed, and in her body. He knew things were complicated with her children, but he felt confident that she would simply realize that she wanted him in her life, and choose him. They could figure out the details then. Maybe when he picked up the next rank of staff sergeant, he could convince Molly to come live with him somewhere near the base. He was up for transfer in the next six months, but he hadn't applied for any specific transfer. The court martial had put that on hold. But once that was past, he could apply for a transfer when he renewed his enlistment contract, Maybe somewhere nearer to her city. Or maybe he could even convince her to move in with him wherever his next duty station was. He could make sure Lucy and Max were settled in the new school and rent or even buy a house big enough for all of them. Chris could take the kids on weekends or something, with however shared custody works, and he and Molly could begin building their life together.

Of course, he had never communicated any of these hopes to Molly. He had to be delicate, as he knew how sensitive she was to the prospect of disrupting her children's lives. And apparently Chris was making money now. So it was a dicey prospect to bring it up.

But the nights were lonely in his barracks room. And the nightmares were coming back. Molly seemed able to keep them away. But he was starting to avoid going to sleep.

He couldn't tell anyone. Especially not with the court martial pending. Going to the doc was out of the question. Mental health treatment was a guaranteed career killer.

He needed Molly's magic whisper to pull him out of the dark places.

Now, having seen her text message, he was wiping his brow with the bottom of his shirt, walking back toward his barracks room after dismissing the platoon for the day after an afternoon grind of hand-to-hand combat training. Having recently completed the green-belt instructor training, going to the pit was the new afternoon pastime for third platoon. Since Mark had recently qualified to provide basic instruction to newer marines, he felt that his platoon could use the practice. Jared was helping, having also just finished his green belt instructor training. He seemed to have a knack for the stuff, and clearly had ambitions to go further with it.

So even though he was sweaty and exhausted after hours of teaching and drilling his platoon, it was a good day. He almost forgot about his troubles. Especially when Molly texted him in the middle of the day. He unlocked the door to his barracks room and went straight to the shower, hosing off the sweat and grime of the day before changing into a t-shirt and basketball shorts. He grabbed his camp chair and his book and headed out to the walkway, flopping down in the late afternoon heat.

Raising his cell phone to his ear, two rings came and went. The third was interrupted with enthusiasm.

"Hey you!"

Mark smiled to himself. Her voice really was magic. Like drinking a silky sweet cocoa on a cold, windy day.

"Hey Mol. What's up?"

"Just waiting for you to call me back…how was your day?"

Mark could hear the excitement in her voice. She had news. Good news. He could feel it.

"Not bad. A lot of groundfighting training. So a bunch of sweaty dudes rolling around in shredded rubber pits."

"Oooh, sexy…"

Mark snorted. "Yeah, not really. At least not that I could tell. More smelly than anything. So what's up? You've got your 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' voice all fired up."

"I do not!"

"Yeah, you do. I can hear it."

"Fine…" Molly sighed in mock exasperation. "I just thought you might like to know that Chris is taking the kids to his parents' place for the long weekend. I have a shift on Sunday, the normal surgery nurse is on vacation so I can't leave town. But the house will be empty."

"Okay…" Mark said, not quite following.

"So…" Molly intoned ambiguously.

"So what?" Mark asked, puzzled.

"Wow, you can be really thick sometimes, Hulk-man. I'll just come out and ask it. You want to come play house with me for the long weekend? You have Monday off, right?"

Mark's eyebrows raised. "Yeah…so what…we just hang out at your house?"

"That's the plan. You know, snuggle on the couch, watch movies, I can cook for you, that kind of stuff. We can go out too, if you want, but then we come back here. And of course, you can take me in my own bed. But only if you want to, of course."

As intriguing as the thought of having Molly's body in her marital bed was, Mark was more charmed at the idea of getting a taste of living with her would be like. But he certainly wasn't going to let on about that particular motivation.

"I don't know…What kind of bed you got?" Mark responded impishly.

"I don't know…a bed. It's a king…it's soft…it's mine so it's got a bunch of pillows on it…you know, a bed!" Molly laughed, enjoying the game.

"Is it stable? Is it gonna break when I start blowing your back out?"

"That's unclear…" Molly said sarcastically. "It hasn't really been tested. To be honest, the only sex this bed has seen was with my husband, which is pretty weak sauce. You might turn it into matchsticks. Who knows? But I'll be interested to get your notes after…you know…some extensive testing."

"I see. Well, I suppose I'm game if you are."

"Awesome…" Molly gushed. "There's just…ummm…there's just one thing."

Mark cocked an eyebrow. "What one thing?"

Molly's voice turned nervous. "We just…I just want to…um…record one time when we're together. For Chris."

Mark squinted. "Record? For Chris?"

Molly sounded flustered. "Yeah. It's kind of part of his whole cuckold thing. He's been bugging me to get pictures or a video or whatever when we're together, and I've kinda blown him off because I think it's weird. But then we also had a rule where you don't come to the house. But I really wanted to have you over, because I really want to have sex with you in our bed…and he said he was cool with it, but only if we put a camera in the room."

Mark paused before answering. "He wants to watch?"

"Yeah…kinda like he did sometimes when we first got together on the beach. He likes…he likes to see you being better at sex than him. That's what he gets out of this."

"Yeah, I remember that. I kinda hoped he'd just lock those first times in his spank bank and we could do our thing. But I get it, I guess. But I thought you said he wasn't allowed to see you naked anymore…"

"Yeah, well, this time I'll be with you. So I said he can see me naked, but only if I'm with you. I mean…only if I'm naked for you. I know, it's weird. If you don't want to do this, we can just not do it, and we can get a hotel on Friday again…"

"No, no…I like it. I want to spend time with you in your space. I really do want to do it, Mol. Let's do it."

"Okay," Molly exhaled, clearly relieved.

"I'm just not sure…so what's my role here?" Mark struggled to understand.

"Really nothing, just come over and we do it how we normally do. Like I said, he likes to know you're better than him, and…well, you always are. So just come and do your thing…we'll do our thing. Then when we're done I'll turn the camera off. That's it."

Mark paused again. "So we for sure turn off the cameras when we're done? I don't want him watching me sleep. Watching us sleep."

"No, of course…" Molly hastened in response. "No, we'll just do it once, then we'll turn it off for the rest of the weekend. It will be just us for most of the weekend, honey. I promise. And I'll take good care of you."

Mark melted. She hadn't called him "honey" before.

"Okay, sounds good."

"Really?" Molly sounded elated.

"Yeah, really. Brace yourself. I'm gonna rail the shit outta you. I'm bringing handcuffs and shit."

"Oh, I like that…" Molly said, clearly through a smile.

* * *

"Your first chapter was adequate. I have provided some notes. How goes the second chapter draft?"

Jordan sat across the desk from Professor Lukacz, who had resumed his stern, official persona after some friendly banter. Their relationship was becoming cordial, which she hadn't expected after the first couple of frigid years under his supervision. She was surprised how warm he could be, but only in short bursts.

"I have an outline, and some preliminary data and analysis. So the bones are there, I'm just trying to get meat on them."

"An apt analogy, as the "meat" are muscles that make the bones move. Making the data dance is a methodological gift of yours, or at least it seems so from your initial work. Do you require anything from me at this point?"

"Nothing major," Jordan reached into her bag and pulled out a prepared sheet of paper, sliding it across his desk toward him. "I do have a few methodological questions, speaking of dancing. I'd like to get your opinion on these issues before I flesh out my analysis. I have them listed here so I don't forget any."

Jordan waited quietly while her mentor perused the document. A knock on the half-open door startled them both.

"Jordan Stark? Is there a Jordan Stark here?"

"That's me…" Jordan replied, confused. She stood up to open the door fully and met a delivery man holding a huge arrangement of flowers with both arms. Behind him was a wheelie cart with several boxes of chocolates and a large stuffed rabbit clutching a blood red heart between its paws.

Jordan's mouth fell open.

"I delivered this to the office cluster but your desk was all covered with books. I asked the other people there, and they said you were here, so I brought it all here," the delivery man explained. "Where would you like me to put it?"

Jordan's mouth hung agape, unclear on how to respond.

"Not here…" Professor Lukacz replied sternly from behind her. Jordan quickly looked over her shoulder and whispered a horrified apology before turning back to the delivery man.

"Ummm…I'm sorry, I really don't have a place to put all this. I wasn't expecting any…There are some empty desks in that office cluster. You can ask Patrick which ones aren't being used, and maybe just put them there?" Her face contorted in embarrassed sympathy with the delivery man's predicament. "I'm so sorry about this, I had no idea."

"It's okay, it's fine," the delivery man responded. "I'll take this back and find an empty desk."

"Thank you so much…" Jordan bent down to pull her wallet out of her bag, reaching in and pulling out a few dollars. "I'm sorry to put you to extra trouble."

"No, it's okay," the man responded, refusing the tip. "The sender already provided a pretty big tip, so I'm not mad or anything. I'll drop it all off, I'll ask, uh…you said his name was Patrick?"

"Yes. Patrick Lin. And thank you. And I'm so sorry…"

She shut the door, holding her hand to her forehead in embarrassment as the delivery man set the oversized bouquet back down on the cart and began to walk away. Red faced, she sat back down and picked up her notebook. Adjusting her hair, she forced herself to look back up at her amused mentor. "Where were we?"

"Methodology," Professor Lukacz smirked. "Given the level of surprise, I'm guessing this delivery isn't for a known occasion. No anniversaries, birthdays, or any such like?"

Jordan shook her head, mortified.

"So…this bears the mark of an overcompensating apology on the part of a husband. Is everything okay with you, Ms. Simms? Are you well?"

"I'm fine. Everything's fine…my husband is abroad. He's in Japan right now, he travels all over. We're…just…adjusting to the distance."

"I see." The professor set the sheet down on the desk, and his normal stern look softened in sympathy. "Jordan, I don't mean to alarm you, but distance was a major factor in the end of my first two marriages. It's not just physical space between you. You should be aware of that."

Jordan nodded, her blush deepening in shame. "I'm really sorry. I had no intention to bring any personal problems into our meeting today."

The professor nodded in understanding and resumed perusing the paper before launching into lengthy responses to her questions as she took furious notes. The conversation quickly found its rails again and the tone of a collegial exchange on substantive matters resumed. Jordan almost forgot the embarrassment. Almost.

Wrapping up the meeting after nearly an hour, Jordan began to pack up her notes to return to her office space. The professor's tone softened again as she zipped up her book bag.

"You said your husband is in Japan?"

"Yes, that's right. Just this trip though. He goes to different places every few weeks."

"Hmmmm…" Professor Lukacz' lips pursed as he weighed whether to continue. "Stop me if I'm overstepping. My first marriage involved a decision on both our parts to take teaching positions in different states. We saw each other when we could, but professional commitments made it hard. Eventually we grew apart, and an infidelity on my part broke it apart. I still regret that. I loved her deeply."

Jordan was dumbfounded. She had never heard him get personal at all, let alone express vulnerable regret. She was also keenly aware that he was trying to warn her without coming across as meddling.

She cleared her throat. "What would you have done differently, knowing what you know now?"

"I don't know…" Professor Lukacz leaned back in his chair and looked up and away. "Specifically, what would I do differently? I don't know. You said your husband is in Japan…that means that your day is his night, and vice versa. He moves about constantly, you are stationary. He is in business, you are in academia. You must realize that the physical distance is only one component. You two are beginning to live radically different lives. Emotional distance is as inevitable as physical distance."

"So do you think I should ask him to come back here? I think he would. He has a little business here, he could focus on that maybe?"

"I don't presume to dictate the right thing for your relationship. But asking him to change careers also has the danger of generating resentment. No, I only mean to say that the normal avenues of emotional connection are not available when you live such radically different lives.You have to create a new space for connection. You have to get creative. You have to think outside all of the normal boxes, because the normal boxes where we fit all the experiential categories of a relationship are simply not available to you. At least not right now. So you need new boxes. Or you need to change the shape of the boxes you have…if you'll permit me to strain an already weak analogy. For my situation, whatever the slow cascade of petty physical and emotional distances consisted of in reality, I simply wish I had found a way for us to be together. To connect. Regularly. It would have to have been creative. Perhaps unorthodox. Perhaps outright transgressive. Who knows. But, as I said, when none of the normal avenues of connection are open, you must create new ones in order for the relationship to survive."

Jordan nodded, trying to hold her composure.

She had carried a pit in her stomach all day after having sent that horribly mean text to her husband. He had never responded, and now, after the delivery…

"Thank you, professor. I'll give that some thought."

He smiled. "Take the time you need to find the connection you need. Then relax. You're clearly very tense. And your work is much better when you're relaxed. You're doing well, and I don't say that lightly. So try to relax."

"Thank you…I'll try," Jordan blushed, standing up and picking up her bag.

"Now shoo. I'm late for a conference call with some empty-headed administrator and a fund-raiser…"

"Of course. Thank you again…" Jordan nodded gratefully and slipped out the door, closing it behind her.

* * *

It was dark when Mark arrived at the address Molly had sent him that morning.

It was a nice suburban home. A cape style home with an attached garage on one side. A large oak tree accented one side of the front yard, and some well-kept bushes backed a neat row of flowers leading to the front door. The garage door was open, and he recognized Molly's car parked on one side of it.

Pulling into the open garage as Molly instructed, Mark chewed on mixed emotions. On the one hand, the excitement of spending the whole weekend with his girlfriend was buzzing his emotions at a high pitch. On the other, the idea of planning a sex act as a performance for someone else to see…

He didn't like it. He didn't like the idea of anyone seeing his girl in such a compromising position, and he wasn't thrilled about pulling out his own equipment for some weasly perv to jack off to.

But then he remembered the dozens of professional photos Molly took for him when he was stuck in the desert. How uncomfortable it must have been for her to strike sexy poses and take her clothes off for a photographer. She had said she just pretended he was there with her when she did it. She focused on him…doing something for him. And he loved it.

It was only fair to return the favor.

He turned off the 4Runner, grabbed his weekend bag from the passenger's seat and stepped out. As instructed, he pressed the button to close the garage door behind him, ostensibly to conceal his car from the prying eyes of neighbors. Then, with one hand shaking, he turned the knob and walked into the strange house without knocking.

As instructed.

The open door revealed a modest kitchen. Tidy, with navy blue cabinets and well-kept hardwood floors. The refrigerator was clustered with Max's crudely signed crayon drawings, mixed in with A+ tests–Lucy's name written neatly on the top of each page. A bowl of fruit sat in the middle of a kitchen island.

"Hello? Molly?" Mark called out, uncertain of his next move.

"Up the stairs and left down the hall…follow the trail!" Molly's voice was faint, coming down a staircase barely in view from where he stood in the kitchen. He looked down to see a little trail of rose petals leading toward her voice.

He smiled to himself as he followed the trail through the kitchen, up a dozen or so stairs, and then turned left. He heard a small rustling coming from behind a partially shut door that seemed to be the end of the rose petal trail.

Mark nudged the door open to see a bedroom in dim candle light, a king sized bed with a warm vanilla scent coming from the flickering jars on the nightstands flanking the headboard.

Molly was kneeling in the center of the bed on a small scatter of rose petals, her knees apart at about thirty degrees. She wore a blood red lingerie bodysuit made of sheer lace. The top was mostly sheer, supporting but mostly exposing her perky breasts. A graceful ribbon underwire blended below her bust extended down into a more ornate, somewhat more dense pattern, the floral arabesque extending downward further to hide the modesty between her legs. Hanging down from the bottom of the bodysuit were shiny garters holding up a set of matching leggings, smoothly hugging her milk-soft legs from her upper thighs down to the tips of her toes.

Molly wore nervous smile of aroused terror as her lover approached her most intimate space. Her hair was carefully styled, her dark red locks falling over her shoulders in tight, shiny curls. She wore blood-red lipstick that matched her outfit, and she had made up her face. Behind her head, hanging centered over the headboard was a candid but professional photo–Molly in a bridal gown, tossing her bouquet over her shoulder as Chris looked on, smiling.

She was clearly a teenager in that picture. Uncertain. Unknowing. Scared.

She was clearly a woman now. But those emotions still seemed to hang from her body as she kneeled seductively before him.

Presenting herself to him.

Mark stood frozen in the door, taking in the sight and smells of the room.

Molly's posture was tense, waiting for Mark's reaction.

He just looked at her until she smiled nervously.

He smiled back broadly, excited.

Her nervous smile broke into a wide grin.

He dropped his bag and attacked her.

The resulting fumble of arms, legs, and mouths flailed erotically within a sonorous texture of excited hums, contented moans, and relieved sighs. Mark's lips were soon stained red with Molly's lipstick, and her neatly curled hair began to fray as he pawed his fingers through it, clutching and inhaling deeply to smell it. As their tongues found each other, he pulled the straps of her bodysuit down just enough to fully expose her breasts while constraining her arms at the elbows. She, in turn, fumbled awkwardly with the button of his pants, then pulled the zipper down and plunged her hands down past the inside of his waistband. Gently gripping his thickening member, she hungrily returned his kisses until, having freed his manhood from his clothes, she leaned back, gave him a naughty glance that flashed from the depths of her emerald green eyes, then bent at the waist to bob and suckle him.

Mark clutched a handful of red curls as the excitation of nerves that ringed the head of his cock began to melt into her mouth. He groaned as his head fell back slightly, seeing the camera set up on the dresser by the door for the first time.

He tensed, fixated on the black, unblinking eye of the lens that stared back at him.

It was Soulless. Motionless. Dispassionately watching him as his woman fellated him.

She sensed his tension and stopped. Looking up, she saw him fixated on the camera.

Molly's nervousness returned, as her eyes shifted from hunger to a solicitous worry.

She rubbed his thigh gently. "Everything okay?"

Mark's eyes narrowed at the unblinking eye of the camera's lens. Instinctively, he pulled Molly up into a full embrace, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

It wasn't stage fright. He was familiar with the expectation of spectators: the apprehension of standing behind a line of defensive linemen, a crowd of hundreds–sometimes more than a thousand–people counting on your performance. Chanting your name.

This wasn't that feeling.

It wasn't the apprehension of exposing himself to a camera, either. He had worked through that before he walked in the door. If Molly could do it for him, he would do it for Molly.

No, it was a vague sense of displacement–an unblinking, black, motionless eye standing in for another eye.

The eye that sat in the head of the usual occupant of this bed.

The man whose hands and body had enjoyed the fullness of his girlfriend's body.

A rival. A competitor. A threat.

Mark's hunger for Molly's affections deepened steeply. A new wave of desire mixed with defiance surprised him enough to bring his reverie crashing back down to a singular focus: the feel of Molly's soft, warm skin pressed against his.

Her body radiated a mirror of his desire, but the setting of her bed, her bedroom pressed in around Mark. This room–curated and occupied by the woman who had dominated his thoughts for more than a year–this room represented something that he wanted. Something that called out to a deep place in his psyche. The room, or what the room meant, seemed poised to invite him into the bottomless constancy of a woman's sustained affections. A shared space where woman and man bodily merged with regularity in the hopes of–over time–merging souls.

Molly propped herself up, looking up into his eyes with trepidation, waiting for him to say something. He looked down and tilted his head slightly, drinking in the deep, life-giving green of her eyes, a pure and vital contrast to the unblinking black eye of his rival.

His hunger for her and his defiance for the black eye coupled.

He had to claim this woman. This room. He had to make them his.

Mark grasped Molly's upper arms and threw her body completely over his, causing her to land startled on her back, squeaking in surprise. Mark looped his fingers under the shoulder straps of Molly's lace bodysuit, still loosely hanging about her forearms, and pulled the whole ensemble cleanly off her body, leaving only the stockings. The lace material collapsed helplessly into a delicate ball in his fist, which he casually threw toward the black, unblinking eye.

He then reached down to hook his elbows under the back of Molly's knees, then stood to full height on the edge of the bed and raising her inverted, naked body up to him, spreading her legs wide as her bottom lifted off the mattress, her shoulder blades following her up as her womanhood was lifted in one smooth motion to meet Mark's mouth.

Mark grunted as the pillow-soft, baby-smooth skin of Molly's most intimate space met his lips, and he began to feast. Molly dangled, her knees draped over his powerful shoulders with only her head jutting upward, the broken curls splaying out on the bed. Her mouth hung open, stunned at the first time her lover had taken her this way. Her arms clawed the bedding for any fistful of sheet or bedspread to hold onto as her eyes rolled back in her head.

A long, deep moan rumbled from Molly's chest as Mark lapped hungrily.

Sensing her excitement, Mark began to hum a low drone under the wet smacks of his lips as he began to alternate rubbing his broad chin back and forth between her legs and to flick her small stiffness with the tip of his tongue. A few short moments passed with no real words before Mark felt Molly's heels, draped over his shoulders, begin to dig sharply into his shoulder blades.

Molly's periodic squeaks dropped an octave as she desperately bucked her inverted hips into her lover's mouth and gasped out a body curling orgasm until all her limbs hung limp.

Mark kissed the smooth, wet lips of her pleasure. Then, grasping her waist, he tossed her milk-pale body gently away from him. She bounced on the mattress and lay stunned for a moment, recovering.

Mark watched as she caught her breath. Then, coming to herself, she looked up at him with hungry trepidation. She propped herself up on her back, her legs open and her eyes wary as Mark pulled his shirt off. She unknowingly bit her lip as his long, toned arms reached down and undid his belt and dropped his pants down to his ankles.

Molly's eyes were fixed on the tall, broad, body of her lover flickering in the candlelight. The wide V-shape starting at his wide shoulders tapered gradually until narrowing steeply below his iliac crest. The lower muscular definition of his abdomen narrowed further still until terminating at his long, thickening cock hanging deep between his powerful legs. He stood casually at shoulder-width looking down at her, a full presentation of powerful masculinity.

Seeing the look in her eyes, Mark crawled onto the bed.

Without thought or command, Molly's legs tucked upward and spread outward to receive him. Mark positioned his body between them, preparing to take her in her bed.

He curled his hand behind Molly's head, leaning down to kiss her as his growing erection found her invitation. Pausing and resting the thick tip of his cock on her moist crevice, his weight applied a gentle, steady pressure that was insufficient to penetrate and subsequently drew indignant squeaks from her as they kissed. She began to blindly reach between their bodies to coax his excitement into hers, but he gently swatted her wrist away and continued to kiss her.

The silent room was punctuated with the gentle smacks and moans of hungry foreplay. As they exchanged kisses, Mark periodically leaned forward slightly, nudging but not parting her opening with his heavy cock. Molly's indignations took on the quality of a whine with a gradually ascending pitch at each tease. At length, he broke the kisses and kneeled upright, glancing briefly at the observing black eye on the dresser.

"You want this?" Mark asked pointedly.

Molly nodded silently.

"What do you want?"

"You…" Molly said quietly.

"I can't hear you, Molly. Speak up, please."

Molly stole a glance toward the black eye herself, her face turning slightly red.

"I want you…"

"Who am I?"

Molly glanced toward the dresser again, then back up at Mark.

"You're Mark…"

"Where are we, Molly?

"We're in bed…" Molly''s breath began to quicken.

"Whose bed, Molly?"

"My bed…" She began urgently nudging her pelvis toward Mark, attempting to slip him into her, but Mark shook his head and held her at bay with his hand.

"Your bed, Molly?"

"Mmmhmm…Mine and my husband's…" Molly whined, her eyes crinkling in desperation.

"What are we doing in your bed, Molly?"

"We're having sex…oh god…"

The last outburst was drawn from Molly as the tip of Mark's cock found its way briefly into her before withdrawing and resuming its tense pressure.

"Are we?" Mark teased.

"Yes…no…yes, please?"

"Please what?"

"Please…give me, no…um, take me…please can we..?" Molly's flustered whine dipped into a high pitch bordering on the absurd.

"You want me to take you?"

"Yes…" Molly's harsh whisper tumbled out of her mouth, her bare breasts rising and falling rapidly.

"You want me to take your pussy?"

"Yes…please…"

"Ask me, Molly."

Molly's eyes darted nervously toward the camera again before looking back up in giddy frustration toward her lover.

"Please take my pussy, Mark…please?"

Mark nudged gently but only partially into her again, stopping just before the corona of his penis slipped past her slippery vulva.

"Oh god…" Molly's whisper was harsh, grimacing in frustration. Mark dipped in and out of her shallows, teasing but not breaking the solemn, unmoved look he had held since he first noticed the camera.

"I'm going to fuck you, Molly. But on one condition."

Molly's head wagged back and forth in frustration, waiting for him to relieve her.

"You want me to fuck you, Molly? You gonna do what I say?"

She nodded quickly, grimacing.

"This is my pussy, Molly. Mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes…ohmygodyes…" Molly exhaled.

"Tell him, Molly. Tell him right now." Mark pointed toward the camera.

Molly's eyes widened, then softened in desperation, then pleaded up toward the face of the large, amply endowed man who held her in his thrall. Her eyes reluctantly followed down his arm to find the unblinking black eye, then locked her gaze into the still, emotionless depth of the device.

"It's Mark's pussy now, Chris."

Molly's eyes and jaw snapped open as Mark shoved his considerable body weight into Molly, savagely penetrating her depth. She gasped out in surprise, forgetting to look away from the camera. Still facing the unblinking eye, her eyes began to roll, then slip back into focus, then go vacant as her boyfriend began to fuck her with deep, confident strokes at a steady pace.

Several moments passed, holding Molly in the embrace of deep pleasure when a familiar wail from her body surprised her, splitting the silence of the candlelit room. Mark felt a thick coating of moisture rapidly supplement the already gooey welcome of the pussy he now claimed as his property. He turned Molly's face away from the camera and began to kiss her while her hips and limbs twitched in the aftershocks of shuddering orgasm.

Mark touched his forehead to hers and kept pounding, picking up his pace. Molly wrapped her pale legs around his hips, signaling a desire to fully receive him.

"You want my cum?" Mark grunted, holding her gaze.

Molly nodded, cooing up at him with misty eyes.

"Ask me."

Molly picked up on the signal, her eyes darting toward the camera again.

The admission of Mark's primacy, indeed ownership of her body, seemed to cause her to pivot from a halting apprehension toward an easy, seductive confidence. She put her fingers gently on his cheeks, her green eyes boring into his. In a smooth, even, and confident voice that departed entirely from the insecure trepidation that colored the beginning of the night, she held Mark's gaze and gently requested that he ejaculate into the intimate space that he now owned.

As Molly's mouth fell open again in the shock of deep fulfillment, Mark grunted and complied.

Their gentle kisses lasted until Mark's cock deflated, then slid heavily out of her smooth opening, a generous trickle of thick semen flowing out.

Mark rolled onto his back. Wordlessly, Molly cuddled up to him as she pulled his arm around her.

Naked and sated for the moment, Mark and Molly lay in silence. The candle flames made the shadows of the stable bedposts dance against the walls behind them, and the vanilla scent blended ambiguously with the scent of their passion.

"I meant it, Molly." Mark's voice interrupted the silence.

"I know." Molly said, sighing contentedly.

Mark was unsure if she understood him. Clarifying, he continued.

"I own your pussy now. I want it. Just for me."

Molly didn't answer right away. Instead, she stood up and walked over toward the dresser, her naked body fully exposed to the unblinking black eye. Moving toward the camera, a hint of reflected candlelight occasionally showing a glimmer of fresh moisture–a mixture of hers and his–thinly coating the upper cleft of her shaved vagina and dripping down to moisten the tops of her stockings. She stood before the unblinking black iris, a poised sense of calm informing her stance.

For a moment she said nothing, looking directly into the camera, displaying herself. Then she reached between her legs, scooping up a gob of mixed-source moisture. She extended two fingers straight up in front of her, watching the moisture slowly drizzle down toward her palm.

Molly tilted her head slightly, her hair swishing as she looked directly into her husband's proxy eye.

"You heard him, honey. It's his now."

Molly's voice was flat, stating a mere and incontestable fact. She slipped her finger into her mouth, sucking off the viscous white substance before swallowing ostentatiously. She then displayed her clean fingers to the camera before casually reaching down and turning it off.

* * *

"Hey baby…"

"Hey…" David fumbled in the dark to find the switch for the night light. He couldn't find it.

Japanese lamp.

There was probably some elaborate unintuitive switch…maybe a touch-screen or something…

"Did I wake you up? I hope I didn't wake you up…" Jordan's voice sounded genuinely concerned on the other side of the call.

David continued to fumble, knocking the alarm clock off the nightstand. He was new to international travel, and he wasn't prepared for the little differences in convenience between an American and a Japanese hotel.

"No…well, kinda, but my alarm was set for five minutes from now anyway, so it's not a big deal."

"Oh, honey…I really am sorry. We should come up with a better system for time differences, since this is going to be a thing."

"Jordan, It's fine, it's really fine." David found the switch on the underside of the lamp, and pressed it. A pathetically dim light illuminated the room. He looked at the button again, pushing it again, and the light got a little brighter. Then he held it down as the light became adequate to use.

Dimmer switch. Of course.

David awkwardly set the lamp down flat, then sat up in bed.

"I'm glad you called. Really glad." David said, rubbing his eyes. "I had some trouble sleeping. I sent you…some things, did you get any of the things I sent?"

"Yeah, David. I got them. You're sweet…" Jordan's voice sounded unconvinced.

David went into full apology mode. "I'm so sorry, honey. I shouldn't have brought that stuff up. You know how I get sometimes, and I know it's painful for you to talk about. I promise it won't happen again."

Jordan sighed. "I'm sorry too, honey. I'm…I just don't know how to move past this, and now that we're apart so much, it's getting hard to communicate. The time difference is really throwing me this time. And it's going to change every time you go out? We've got to figure something out. We've got to get better at this."

"Yeah, of course. I'm all ears, what do you need? I'll make time for it."

Jordan sighed again. "Honestly, honey, I don't know what I need. I'm kind of a ball of stress lately, with all the stuff going on. I always look forward to talking to you, but we keep missing each other. We're really only connecting like once a week, and always at a weird time. It's so much easier when you're here. At least then we always have evenings together."

"Yeah, and your evening is my morning. At least for this trip. For the next couple of weeks."

"Where's your next tour?"

"Eastern shore of South America. Couple ports in Brazil, then the last week is Buenos Aires."

"That'll be close to the same time zone, at least."

"Yeah."

Jordan paused. "I don't know, honey. I just want to feel connected to you. At least a little. Maybe we could do little texts throughout the day or something?"

"I could do that." David responded hopefully. "Like little love notes or something?"

"Yeah, and whatever else. Just like…whenever you're thinking of me, send me a text with what you're thinking about."

Jordan could sense the smirk on David's face as he responded.

"Anything I'm thinking about?"

Jordan smiled for the first time since she called. "Sure...but with the caveat that sexy time should be special."

"Ok, fair enough. Even just a heart emoji or something?"

"Yeah, just…I like to know you're thinking about me. That makes me feel like we're connecting."

"Done."

"Okay…" Jordan smiled again, unsure of what to say.

"So, am I still in trouble?"

Jordan rolled her eyes. "I guess not. I mean…It's not all you. I'm actually really sorry too. That's why I've been dreading this conversation, honey. You poked a soft spot, and we haven't really dealt with what happened, and I overreacted. And I'm really sorry. I said some really, really mean things to you."

"It's okay, Jo. I didn't take it that way. I didn't get mad or hurt at all."

"I know you didn't…" now it was Jordan's turn to rub her eyes, but in frustration. "Baby, I know about your little horny fixation, obviously. And I'm glad you think it was hot, and you don't hold any of the things I did before against me. But it all went so wrong. I don't blame you for what happened, but I just don't think it's healthy, baby. What we have should be special between us."

"I agree."

Jordan paused, thinking. "So…do you accept my apology?"

Now David paused. "Do you want me to be completely honest?"

"Yes, baby. Always."

"Okay." David took a deep breath. "Here goes. I don't see you having anything to apologize for. I know you wish you hadn't said what you said in that last text. I know you wish you hadn't hooked up with Mark, too. I know you feel bad about all the stuff we did, even the stuff that you think degraded and humiliated me. I know you feel bad about what happened with Vinny. But I don't feel bad about it. Any of it. I feel a little bad that it makes me so excited, because I know you're uncomfortable with it. But I don't feel bad that you did any of it."

Jordan squinted, trying to process what her husband was trying to explain. "So…tell me if I don't understand this…but you're saying you only feel bad that I feel bad? But you don't feel bad about any of the things I said or did?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"That doesn't make sense, David."

"I know. But it's how I feel."

Jordan shook her head in confusion. "But I hurt you. I humiliated you, and degraded you, baby. I f…" Jordan instinctively looked around the empty apartment, suddenly worried she would be overheard. She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. "I made you eat Mark's…stuff. Out of my body!"

Jordan heard her husband clear his throat, clearly affected by the admission. "I know."

"Baby, I know about the whole…c-word thing, but how can you think that's healthy? And how can you see our relationship as healthy when I did that stuff to you?"

"I know it's weird, Jo. Believe me, I know. And maybe I'm sick in the head. But it's how I feel. So the only bad feelings I have are that you feel guilty. If you didn't feel guilty, I wouldn't feel bad."

"Baby, you're not thinking this through. I mean, what happened with Vinny…"

"You had absolutely nothing to do with what happened with Vinny." David's voice was suddenly strong in protest.

Jordan was stunned at the interruption.

"How could you say that? He found a letter I wrote…a letter filled with incredibly disrespectful things about you. I wrote that letter, David! I did it!"

"Vinny was an asshole, honey. And he was looking for reasons to undercut me, because he thought I was going to be his boss. He would have taken any excuse to pull me into a fight and beat me up. He was trying to do it for months before."

"Yeah, and I gave him all the ammo he needed…"

"I didn't get the job. I would have, but nepotism is a thing. In response to Vinny's bullshit, we got a debt-free start to a new business, and that business is thriving. And I got a free lead on the job I have now which has more than twice the salary of the one I lost out on. We have two or three times more money, now than we would have if I'd taken the manager job. Maybe more if all the contracts hold for the business. And Vinny's probably still on unemployment, trying to find another dock foreman job. While I'm gonna be in a position to pay cash for our first house in a year when you find a place to teach."

Jordan was stunned by her husband's indignation. "I know that honey…I know how hard you work. I didn't mean to imply…"

"You think I need protecting, Jo. And that's sweet. But I don't, okay? I've gotten a lot of lemons in my life, Jo. I make lemonade. It's what I do. I can handle myself, and I can take care of you. Vinny thought he was cute letting the air out of my truck tires every morning. I put air back in them, and I made my route on time. Now I've got two dozen Japanese salary men at the Nagoya dock kissing my ass and recalibrating their entire crane operation when I tell them to. I won, honey. We won."

Jordan was flushed. She didn't know what to say.

"I, uh…okay, baby. I can see that. I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Well, that's the way it is."

Now it was Jordan's turn to clear her throat. "So…what do you want me to do, David?"

"Relax, baby. I want you to relax. Stop beating yourself up. If I'm hurt,...if you're hurting me, I'll tell you. Otherwise, just treat me like a man."

Jordan nodded, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Okay. I'll work on that, honey."

"Good. I love you, Jordan. You're my whole world. Just relax, okay?"

"Okay. I love you too, David."

"Good. Now I gotta shower and get going. I'm catching the train to Tokyo in an hour. I'll text you when I think about you. You gonna do the same for me?"

"Yeah, yeah of course baby."

"Okay. Have a good night, sweets."

"Good night, David. I mean, have a good day! Sorry, I'm still mixing it up…"

"That's okay. Gotta go. Kisses!"

"Bye, honey."

They hung up. Jordan was still a little taken aback. She walked over to the table and gently touched the bouquet of flowers she had found waiting for her when she arrived at the door of their apartment.

Yes, he had sent one large arrangement to her office, another to their house. This one came with even more chocolates.

She quietly opened a music app on her phone and went to the kitchen to cook some spaghetti. She kept returning to think about David's strident defense of himself. She felt bad that she was interpreting his deference to her as weakness. He wasn't a weak man. He was a gentle man. But not weak. Not in any sense. Being raised by a pastor with a very similar temperament, she was surprised that she still confused the two attributes. But finding David in the hospital after his encounter with Vinny had made her reflexively defensive of, and indeed protective of, her husband.

Maybe she had overreacted.

Her phone dinged as she transferred the spaghetti to the colander to drain.

A text from David.

D: Just got on the train. It's one of those bullet trains. Super cool. Thinking of you, wishing you were here. XO

Jordan smiled and responded.

J: Wish I was there too! Sounds fun. I really love you, David. I hope you know that.

D: Yeah? How much do you love me?

J: A million billion tons.

D: That's a start. I'll get to work on how many freight liners it would take to move all of that. What are you doing now?

J: I'm heating up some spaghetti sauce. About to sit down to eat.

D: Okay. I got something for you.

J: 🥰 You already got me two deliveries of flowers with chocolates and doodads, David!

Jordan was pouring the spaghetti sauce on when the phone dinged again. She opened her phone. The text message had a link to a gift card. To a local spa.

J: David! What's this?

D: It's a subscription. Two massages every month. You pick the time. Hoping it can help you relax a little.

J: Baby! You're so sweet! I've never had a massage before.

Jordan sat down with her food and began eating.

D: Well, me neither. But I've heard they help you relax. So it's worth a shot.

J: Thank you baby! How much did this cost?

D: Don't worry about it. And not that much, actually. It's way cheaper with the subscription. So you got six months worth of these things. Go nuts.

J:

D: Okay, honey. I've got a work call coming in. TTYL.

J:

Jordan couldn't stop smiling as she ate her spaghetti. Finishing up, she quickly washed her plate and then sat back down with her laptop, resuming her research for her dissertation.

She found it tough to concentrate. She was still a little worried about the tense exchanges between them in the last couple of days. She felt like she couldn't stop herself from being a little snippy, and was expecting David to be solicitous to reconcile and make her feel better. She wasn't expecting him to assert himself so strongly. She wasn't sure how to react to the change in tone.

She ate a couple of chocolates from the box he sent, a hint of the flush from the earlier conversation lingering on her brow and in her cheeks.

Her phone dinged again, and she picked it up.

D: Thinking about you again. I want you to do something for me.

Jordan smiled.

J: Okay, what?

D: I want you to tell me when you touch yourself. Text me whenever you do it.

Jordan's eyes bugged, shocked.

J: Ummmm….okay?

D: You do that, don't you?

The hint of crimson flush in Jordan's face deepened. She hesitated to respond.

J: I don't know what to say?

D: Say the truth. Do you masturbate?

Jordan's heart began to pick up as she remembered hearing David's commanding tone over the phone earlier. She replied to the text, tucked her hair behind her ear nervously, then hit the send button.

J: Yes.

D: Good. I want you to do it. I just want to know when you're doing it, so I can picture you naked. I like doing that. And we can have a little bit of a connection that way.

Jordan breathed in deeply, straightening in her chair.

J: Okay. I'll try. Do you want me to just say it…or..?

D: You don't have to come out and say it if you're not comfortable. You could use a special emoji, if you want. Something that says when you start, and when you're done. Just tell me the code beforehand, so I know.

J: Okay. What emojis should I use?

D: You pick them. Then let me know whenever. I've got a minute to text. My call just ended, I'm just looking over the port schedule for Tokyo now. And we're not due at the station for another 45 minutes. So take your time. Just let me know what you find.

J: Okay.

Her face beginning to heat, Jordan scrolled through the long display of emojis, her left hand unthinkingly over her mouth in mild scandal as she flipped back and forth through the menu, weighing the perfect balance of a subtle yet engaging symbol to signal her husband when she was about to begin her most private moments.

J: How about… for when I start?

D: What's that?

J: It's a dancing woman. For when I want to get a little frisky…

D: Okay, I love it. You made me smile IRL. What about when you're finished…

J: I was thinking this one .

D: Why that one?

J: I don't know…
J: This is kind of embarrassing, but you know how my legs kind of close when I'm finishing? Then after it passes they relax and kind of fall open a little bit?

D: Oh yeah, I've had that happen around my ears a couple times.

J: I know you have. So I thought I kind of relax like a flower opening. That's what I was thinking. Do you approve?

D: A blossoming flower. I love it. Good choice, Jo. Man, I'm getting excited now. You're really good at finding my buttons. It's incredible.

J:

D: Okay, sounds good. I look forward to my first dancing lady!

J: This is so weird…

D: It is. But it is in a good way. Just do it for me, Jordan.

J: No, I will. I like it, actually. The idea of it. I like that it might help us feel more connected?

D: That was my thought.

J: Okay. It's a deal. I'll be a naughty girl for you.

D: Love it.
D: Okay, gotta go now, Jo. Got another call coming in.

J: Okay, love you!

David took the call from the Tokyo office. It was a polite, soft spoken secretary expecting his arrival and giving him details on who would meet him at the train station. As the train pulled in, he looked through the window and recognized the man in the suit as described, holding a sign with his name on it in the insanely crowded station. Grabbing his suitcase, he left the train and met the man, shaking hands and bowing politely. After getting in the car, he began reviewing the details of the upcoming day as they drew near the port entrance. He felt his phone buzz in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He reached in to check it.

J:

* * *

Mark bent over at the waist, looking into a crowded refrigerator. He was barefoot and clad only in loose fitting basketball shorts, his wide, muscular torso open to the air.

Bright morning light poured in through the kitchen window as a small collection of ingredients found their way onto the island countertop across from the stove. Closing the refrigerator door, Mark hunted through the kitchen until he found a cutting board and a knife. He began slicing up tomatoes and part of an onion, then found a skillet and set it on the stove, adding butter and turning on the heat.

Within minutes, a dazed but delighted Molly stumbled into the kitchen in a plain gray bathrobe and mussy-red hair.

"Something smells good…are you cooking?"

The confused squint against the bright morning light combined with a gravely voice. Molly displayed the signs of an intense and energetic night.

"Yeah, just making some eggs. That okay?"

"More than okay…" Molly sat down on the barstool set behind the kitchen island. "You really know how to treat a girl right."

Mark smiled, his back still to his girlfriend as he tended the skillet.

The sizzle of eggs intensified as he scraped diced tomatoes and onions into the mix and shuffled them around with a silicone spatula.

"Everything okay?" Mark asked over his shoulder.

Molly smiled widely, closed her eyes, and sighed deeply.

"Everything's great. Just…awesome…"

Mark grinned and turned back to his cooking. When the dish was done, he divided up the mash into plates and poured two glasses of orange juice, before setting the plates down and sitting next to Molly.

"Oh my god, Mark…you're so sweet. I'd kiss you but I don't want you to die from my morning breath…"

"Try me…" Mark half smiled and leaned in, giving her a slow, open-mouth kiss. "Now dig in."

Molly blushed and ate a forkful. Her eyes opened wide, talking excitedly with her mouth still full.

"Holy…what is in these?"

"They're just eggs. Tex-Mex style. My mom used to make them. You didn't have any green onions though, so I just used a little more white onions than I usually do. And a dash of tabasco."

"Oh my god! They're so good!" Molly dipped her fork heavily into the mash, then stuck it into her mouth and moaned.

"I love that sound…" Mark smirked.

"Shut up, you…" Molly poked his bare arm with her fork playfully. They ate in silence for a few moments, Molly savoring the food. Mark was delighted she liked it, but kept quiet while they ate.

"Your mom's from South America, right?" Molly asked.

"Yeah, technically Central America. El Salvador."

"Sorry, I guess I didn't really know where the central part ends and the south part starts…" Molly said sheepishly. "But I googled it. It looks like a really beautiful country."

"Yeah, maybe. I've never been. Whenever I asked mom about it, she'd just tell me I can never go back. It's pretty violent there. She said once she got across the border into El Paso the first time, she wanted to chain herself to something so she could never be pulled back. She was a little dramatic, though." Mark took another bite and smiled.

"Right…I bet," Molly said, unsure if she should pursue the line of conversation. "I just wondered where this recipe came from. It's amazing. You have to write it down, I want to try and make it for Lucy. Max hates everything, but Lucy will probably love it."

Mark chuckled. "I can make it for her if you want."

Molly didn't answer.

Mark got the hint.

They finished breakfast, and Mark collected the dishes, walking over to the sink.

"No, let me…" Molly hastened to the sink. "You made the food, I'll clean up. You're my guest, Hulk-man…let me take care of you."

Molly raised her eyebrows, signifying a playful edge to her comment.

"Works for me…" Mark leaned in and kissed her deeply again. Then again.

Molly broke away and turned on the sink as Mark put all of the ingredients back into the cupboards and the refrigerator where he found them. Then leaned against the counter next to her.

Molly soaped up the dishes and went to work, occasionally stealing glances over at her half-naked lover's body.

"So I took a little tour of the place before I came to the kitchen. Hope that's okay…"

"Yeah, of course…" Molly said, looking over at him. "Find anything interesting?"

"Only everything," Mark quipped. Molly smiled and returned to wiping the plate in her hands.

"So, the room with the tall bookshelf and all of the little robot gidgets. That's Lucy's, obviously."

"Yep…" Molly smiled proudly as she nodded.

"And the explosion in the lego factory in the next room, that's Max."

"That's the one," Molly laughed.

"And the one I slept in last night…that's yours…"

Molly blushed. "Yep. Right again."

"So the fourth one? The explosion in a…something factory?"

Molly sighed. "You found Chris' office. He's…messy. But he's been better about confining his mess to that one room. But I'd be lying if I said it doesn't drive me a little crazy."

"Is it like…a disordered genius thing? I guess I just don't understand it. I come from a place where I'll ruin a guy's life for having too much dust on the back of the TV in his barracks room. And my mom was a total neat freak. So I don't really understand it."

"It's kind of a disordered genius thing, yeah…" Molly admitted. "Say what you want about Chris, he's really smart. He's always trying to crack some new code. And apparently there's a bidding war going on right now for some new software he built with one of his gaming friends."

"Really?" Mark raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. I mean, he's said he's made game-changing hacks before, but I've never actually seen them pan out with the payday he thinks he'll get. This one seems different though. So he's pretty excited. And his office is a little messier than usual. But it is always messy."

"Huh…"Mark nodded.

Molly turned off the water and set the last plate in a drying rack next to the sink. "Anyway…I hope it doesn't freak you out, coming to my house where the kids live. And my husband."

"I'm not freaked out. I love it."

Molly smiled, blushing slightly. "Good. I'm glad."

"I love it here, Molly. And I love you."

Molly's smile strained and her face reddened more.

She seemed at a loss for words, leaning awkwardly forward and clasping her hands behind his bare back before resting her head on his chest. He could feel her hands shaking against the small of his back.

Mark waited for her to respond. She didn't.

"I hope I didn't just step in the punch bowl here…" Mark said after an uncomfortable silence.

"No…it's not that…" Molly said, not pulling herself away from him. Her voice was shaking too.

"I'm really sorry, Mol. I didn't mean to…"

He didn't finish the sentence.

"I mean…" he continued awkwardly. "I hoped that you would, you know…"

Molly nodded into his chest. He felt a warm drop of moisture touch his chest where it met Molly's cheek.

"Talk to me, Molly. What are you thinking? I'm a big boy, I can take it."

Molly leaned back against the island. She wiped her eyes, looking up to him without touching him.

"I'm really sorry, Mark. I'm a mess, and I don't know what to do."

Now the tears started in earnest, a second rolling down the other cheek. Then a third.

"I was hoping you'd say that, and I was hoping you wouldn't say that," she explained. "It was like Schroedinger's cat or something…"

Mark laughed, and Molly let out a single desperate laugh through her tears before continuing.

"I'm just totally torn. I've been able to live two lives for a while now. I have strong feelings for you. Like…really strong. I think I love you too."

Mark beamed, but listened on, concerned.

"But I have more on my plate than just what I want, Mark. I have Lucy and Max…and a life that isn't…it can't work out the way I want so easily."

"Oh…" Mark said, trying to hide his disappointment.

"But I do want it. I want you." Molly grabbed his hands earnestly and looked up into his eyes. He looked down into hers. The deep emerald rings around her pleading pupils briefly reassured Mark.

"So…what do I do? What's my role here?" Mark asked quietly.

"I don't know…" Molly began crying again. Mark pulled her into his arms and held her while she cried. After a few moments, she regained her composure, then broke the embrace and leaned back against the counter again.

"I mean…I do want you in my life. In a big way. Some days I just want to kick Chris out and move you in. But I know you move around a lot with your career. And I can't do that to the kids. Chris is their dad, and he's actually been turning into a better one. I can't just walk away and get what I want. Even if I really, really want it."

"No, I see. I get it. It's disappointing, but I get it."

"I appreciate that," Molly said sincerely. "And I feel cruel sometimes, because I don't know what to do with all this. And I'm not the only one with a messy situation. I know you have your life and career drama, with the bullshit court martial and everything. I want to be there for you. And I will be there for you, Mark. I will. I want to be your girlfriend. I want you in my life. I really do. I just haven't figured out how to do it right yet. But I'm trying."

Mark's heart warmed, a little more reassured.

"You're a dream boyfriend," Molly said, clasping his hands in hers again. "You're sweet, intelligent, handsome, tall, ripped…"

Mark smiled at the compliments.

"You're good with my kids, you're supportive of me and my career. And you're incredible in bed. You've got all of that going for you, Mark. You've got me swooning over you. And if you left me it would rip my heart out."

Mark nodded gravely. "Yeah, me too."

Molly held his gaze again. "So can we give it more time? I just need to figure out some things. If I tell you I love you too, can we just enjoy it as it is while we figure it out?"

Mark nodded again. "Yeah, I think I can do that."

Molly wiped the tear tracks from her cheeks, then stepped forward and extended her body, reaching her arms around his neck and stretching up on her tiptoes to kiss her boyfriend deeply. Then she set her heels down on the floor again and rested her cheek against his broad, bare chest.

"I love you, Mark Rein," she whispered, as if she had been holding the words back for years. "I love you…"

* * *

Jordan lay back, her hair spread out around her head on the bedspread. Still fully clothed, her jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped, her right hand stuffed down underneath her panties. Her left hand held her phone over her face.

The warm, calm flow of feeling that always accompanied her self-abuse had already begun to spread slowly from her most tender place up into her torso. Soon, a broad, gooey state of relaxation would overtake her whole body as she reveled in the feeling. Then, after a while, that gooey state would ramp up in intensity. Her mind would find what it needed to bring that tension to a peak before releasing it, cradling her in a cozy cocoon of relaxation that would carry her through the evening and into deep sleep.

Normally she was summoned to this state of mind by the gentle push-pull of Mrs. Hyde…the woman in the mirror that Jordan tried valiantly but pointlessly to avoid. Late nights often found her vulnerable, although the frequency of such events seemed inconsistent. Some weeks would involve four or five such calls from the mirror woman. Other weeks would have only one night of desperate self-fondling.

In any event, she would often toss and turn in bed, her body knotted with discomfort. Answering the call of Mrs. Hyde could take the edge off, but it also usually left a heavy feeling of guilt. And it certainly didn't culminate in the deep feeling of love and emotional connection that followed sex with her husband. So, while physically quite pleasant, the overall experience of quietly masturbating in the dark of her bedroom could result in a mixed bag of outcomes, emotionally speaking.

Tonight, however, the call had come not from the woman in the mirror, but from her husband. Jordan was delighted at the change, although she couldn't tell David that.

But his call–and his sudden assertiveness–had pleasantly surprised her.

The warm feeling deepend as she pressed slightly harder, moving her middle finger in small circles near the apex of the opening between her legs.

Jordan pulled up David's texts again, drinking in the sudden sternness of her husband's sexual directions.

D: Thinking about you again. I want you to do something for me.

J: Okay, what?

D: I want you to tell me when you touch yourself. Text me whenever you do it.

Jordan moaned imperceptibly, the light pitch of her vocalization resembling a sigh more than a groan. Her breathing deepened as her finger slid further down between her legs, finding the moisture between her labia with the pad of her long finger. She began to slide it luxuriously up and down the length of her opening, staring at David's commanding words. She scrolled down a bit.

D: Say the truth. Do you masturbate?

J: Yes.

Jordan remembered the tinge of arousal she suppressed when admitting her secrets to her husband. That tinge returned, sending a brief flash of pleasure radiating up from her sex as she shifted her hips. She read on.

D: Good. I want you to. I just want to know when you're doing it, so I can picture you naked. I like doing that. And we can have a little bit of a connection that way.

Jordan let out a sigh, imagining David sternly directing her to take her clothes off. She blushed as she pulled her hands from her panties and sat up, pulling off her shirt and tossing it over the edge of the bed. Then, reaching behind her back, she unclipped her bra and tossed it after the shirt.

She lay back again, running her hands back and forth across her torso, pausing to caress her nipples with the pads of her fingers before reaching under the waistband of her pants and panties and, bucking her hips up, pulling them off and throwing them on the pile of her discarded clothes. Her legs fell open again, and she draped her palm lavishly over her mat of pubic hair before resuming her self-care.

She picked up the phone again, her eyes drawn excitedly to the line:

D: I just want to know when you're doing it, so I can picture you naked.

Jordan dropped the phone and began clutching her right breast with her left hand, her right hand busy between her legs.

"I am, baby…I'm naked for you…" she whispered to the dark. Her middle finger hooked and found its way into her moisture. She sucked in her breath, closing her eyes. She imagined she heard David's voice in the dark space in her mind behind her eyes, staring at her uncovered vulnerability. Smiling at her. Nodding in approval at the sensual motions of her hands around her body. She imagined her husband standing at the bedside unzipping his own pants, pinching himself and masturbating as he watched her touch herself.

I want to know when you're doing it, so I can picture you naked.

Jordan smiled to herself hearing her husband's voice through the naughty text. Her excitement pitched up as she realized that she had sent the requested emoji. She knew that wherever he was…Tokyo somewhere doing business meetings, he knew she was touching herself right now. He knew it.

Her fingers began to move faster.

"He wants this. He wants me to do this for him…" she whispered to herself.

I want to know when you're doing it, so I can picture you naked.

The phrase repeated, but in a deeper, baritone voice.

The text had changed authors in her mind.

Or at least voices. This wasn't her husband speaking.

I want to picture you naked. Tell me when you're touching yourself.

She imagined the phrase reworked, an imaginary text coming from another source.

From some dark space in the back of her mind, she heard a slight giggle, and felt a vague sense resembling a wicked grin cropping up to stand behind her stream of consciousness.

She knew the giggle.

Mrs. Hyde.

Jordan didn't resist, promptly switching text chains on her phone. She opened her text chain with Mark, scrolling up to when her lover had instructed her to covertly masturbate near her husband. She found the texts, reading with the rich oak texture of his voice seeping into her consciousness as her legs stretched open a little wider.

J: OK I'm in the living room. David's doing homework.

M: Can he see you?

J: Yes, kind of. I have a blanket on.

M: That's fine. Begin to touch yourself now.

The deep rumble of Mark's voice had the clear tone of command–over and above the stern assertiveness of her husband earlier that evening during their phone call. Jordan whined helplessly as she conjured the deep voice in her mind. The warm, gooey relaxation phase had decisively resolved and the tension was building in her body. She was shocked to find that the single finger probing her had turned into three at some point in her reverie, and the added pressure of three fingers was causing her eyes to lose focus. She scrolled down.

M: Are you touching yourself?

J: Yes. I'm so worked up, I want to cum

M: You won't cum until you're told.

J: Yes sir…🥵

Jordan groaned, her eyes rolling back. She once again heard her husband's text with Mark's voice:

I want to know when you're doing it, so I can picture you naked.

She whined again, the release of tension evasive. She imagined Mark taunting her again, but all she could get from the voice in her mind was the same phrase repeated.

I want to know when you're doing it, so I can picture you naked.

The thought of reporting her self-care to David was exciting. But the thought of reporting it to Mark…

Thinking only to enhance the fantasy sufficient to pull her over the edge, Jordan tapped the reply box on the text chain and opened up the emoji screen. The wetness of her left hand's motions was becoming audible. She felt the edge of the cliff nudge toward her.

She found the little emoji and pasted it into the reply box, careful not to send it.



The cliff met her and she tumbled over it. The Cheshire grin of Mrs. Hyde beamed with approval in her subconscious as her legs snapped shut and her knees tucked up into her chest, her left hand slapping down onto the bedspread, letting go of her phone and sending it sliding off the bed. Her body tucked in and out in convulsions. Jordan rocked back and forth as the heavy tension of her climax unfurled into dazzling relief. She let her curled three fingers slide out of her body, coated in her now-calming excitement.

Jordan took a minute to catch her breath, then laughed helplessly to herself. She rolled onto her stomach and reached over the bed to pick up her phone. She smiled as she opened the text chain with David, and, with some satisfaction, sent him a message.

J:

She rolled onto her back again, waiting for her heart rate and breathing to stabilize. Within moments, she heard her phone ding and she opened her response from David.

D:

Jordan grinned to herself as she responded.

J:

She set her phone on her bed and stood up unsteadily before making her way to the bathroom to clean up. Once she had toweled off, she heard her phone ding from the bedroom, and she scurried in to see what David said.

Her hand shot up to her mouth when the notification appeared on her screen.

From: Captain Mark Rein

M: Hey! Haven't heard from you in a bit. Hope you're doing well with the dissertation and all. What's with the dancing girl emoji?

* * *

Molly sprawled lazily on her side, the blankets on her bed covering her pale body. Mark lay behind her in big-spoon position, his right arm tucked under her head, extending down over her right shoulder, his large right hand gently squeezing and caressing the strawberry tip of her erect left nipple. His left arm extended lazily over her waist, his hand cupping her vagina as he absently stirred the wetness between her legs.

It was Monday morning.

Molly and Mark had spent the weekend as a couple. Mark had cooked for Molly, and Molly cooked for Mark. They did dishes, went to a movie, and went for a hike on a trail running by a nearby river. They held hands and kissed. They watched the TV in Molly's bedroom, and made deep, slow love each night.

Sunday, Molly had a shift at the hospital that started early in the morning. Mark got up and showered with her, lathering her lithe form in sweet-smelling body wash. They had shared coffee after she had slipped into her scrubs, and she had waved shyly at him through the windshield of her car as he stood in the doorway of the garage while she backed out into the street. He had spent the day in comfortable solitude, entering and exiting her home freely. He had even gone on a run on that same trail, before spending the rest of the day reading on the comfortable couch in her living room. It was a near-perfect Sunday. Totally relaxing, apart from responding to a few calls regarding his marines under discipline. The house was quiet and comfortable. None of the regimented rowdiness of barracks life.

When Molly came home Sunday night, Mark had a little meal prepared, to the delight of his girlfriend. They shared the meal as she talked about her day. Then she wanted to shower again, wanting to wash off the residue of an Emergency Room weekend shift. Mark had joined her, washing her body, again, to her delight. They had tumbled, moist from the shower, into Molly's bed again, and he claimed the deepest parts of her as his own while she loudly ceded her depths to him in eager pleasure. They fell asleep watching an episode of Star Trek, the Next Generation on cable.

Now, Monday morning had arrived. It was a holiday weekend, and Mark didn't have to report back to base until later that evening. Molly didn't have another shift until Wednesday, and Chris and the kids weren't due back until late afternoon. So they had the day. Part of the day, at least.

Molly had woken up first this time, slipping under the covers and gently fellating her lover until he awoke and took her. Worried that she might be sore after the weekend, he was slow and gentle when pressing himself into her eager warmth. Nonetheless, her heels had dug into his lower back regardless of the force or tempo of his movements, and she had barked out in the full ecstasy of feminine release twice before asking him to fill her again.

Mark had propped himself up on his elbows, hooking his arms under her shoulders and locking his gaze into her misty green eyes. The jerky intensity of his own masculine release had caused Molly's jaw to lock open, almost as if she needed to utter something primal but could not remember the words as his liquid spilled copiously into her. They had settled back down into the bed to rest, assuming the spooning position that had Molly smiling from her depths as Mark's hands and fingers explored her.

"I really had fun this weekend…" Mark said into the tangle of her dark red hair.

"Me too…" Molly said, looking straight out before reaching down to pull his hand off her breast. She kissed his fingers, then replaced the hand on her breast. "Thanks for doing the whole camera thing…I know that was weird."

"No problem. I didn't hate it, actually."

"Really?" Molly strained to look over her shoulder at him.

Mark shrugged. "It was good. Kinda made me feel like I was competing for you. Marking my territory, you know? It was hot."

Molly laughed and turned forward again, shaking her head. "Trust me, Hulk-Man. In the bedroom, you have no competition."

Mark beamed.

Molly cooed as he slipped a finger inside her.

They lay in lazy silence for a while before Molly spoke again.

"I took the MCAT. Like you suggested."

"Really?" Mark perked up. He propped himself up on his elbow as he rolled Molly onto her back to look up at him. "How'd it go? How'd you do?"

Molly giggled. "Okay, I guess. It's so cute that you get excited about that."

"Sorry, is it weird?"

"No, it's not weird. I love that you push me to chase my ambitions."

"So how'd you do?"

"I got a 520."

"Is that good?"

Molly laughed. "Yeah, it's pretty good. I studied for months while you were in Afghanistan after we talked. So I was more ready than I thought I'd be. But yeah, 520 is enough to get me into some medical schools."

"So, are you going to do it?"

"I don't know," Molly said, rolling back on her side again, inviting Mark to resume spooning her. He laid down and cradled her, and she wiggled contentedly, pressing the back of her nude body against his. "But now I have the option. I haven't told Chris yet, though."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't think so. Not unless I apply and get in somewhere. He's too much in his own little world."

This might be a way in, Mark thought to himself. He didn't respond, but instead squeezed her hard into his body.

"Proud of you, Mol. I knew you'd do great."

Bzzz bzzz bzzz

Molly's phone buzzed on the nightstand. Not leaving Mark's embrace, Molly pulled the phone off the nightstand and looked at the caller information.

"Speak of the devil…"

Molly answered the call, putting the phone up to her ear. With his face so close to her head, Mark could hear both sides of the conversation, the voice of her husband clearly coming from the speaker.

"Hey…" Molly started.

"Hey, how are you doing? I haven't heard…we haven't…"

"I talked to the kids last night. You were busy."

"I was? I wasn't too busy to talk to you…"

"Your mom said you were doing a project. It's okay, I'm not mad. How are you?"

"I'm…I'm good. How are you?"

"I'm fine. Great, actually. Where are Lucy and Max?"

"With their cousins."

"Okay…" Molly said cautiously. "You by yourself?"

"Yeah. How are you doing?"

"I said I'm great, Chris. What more do you want to know?"

Mark heard Chris stumble over his words, clearly flustered.

"Is…is he still there?"

"Yes. We're in bed, Chris."

Mark heard the panting deepen from the other side of the phone.

"Did you…um…the video?"

"We did that when he got here Friday. Then we took the camera down. Mark wanted us to have some privacy."

"Okay…can we, um, when I come home..?"

"I doubt it, Chris. I'm pretty worn out."

"It's been a long time, honey, I just…"

"If you didn't have such a tiny little dick, we wouldn't be in this situation, Chris. But you do. So here we are." Molly turned her head up so Mark could see her wink back at him.

Mark heard the breathing get harder. His mind recalled the unblinking black eye of the camera. He tightened his grip on Molly, feeling his cock begin to harden as Molly continued.

"We made the video for you, Chris. And frankly it was a lot to ask of Mark. So I think you should just be grateful for that. When you get home, I'll take your cage off for a few minutes so you can watch it, but then you go back in. Okay?"

"Yeah…" Chris choked out through the phone. "Yeah, that sounds good. You're so beautiful, Molly. God…I love you…"

Mark's cock found its way to Molly's wetness. She yelped in delighted surprise when he began pushing into her again.

"Molly? Everything okay?" Chris asked, unsure of what to say.

"No, everything's fine Chris. Mark's just…uhhh…Mark's just starting to…unhhh…"

Chris began hyperventilating.

"I've got to go, Chris. Mark's inside me now, and he's ready to fuck me again. He has to head back to the base around 3. Don't, ohhhh, shit…."

"Don't what?" Chris said at the end of a gasp.

"Don't be home before 5," Molly blurted out, rushed. "I want to have dinner ready and clean up before the kids…"

Molly lost her train of thought as Mark began pumping his hips against her backside. He lifted the phone out of her hand and dropped it in front of her without ending the call. Molly reached out and grabbed his hands, pulling them toward her body as his length fully filled her.

"Oh…fuckkkk….yeeeesssss..."

[nnjcpl2002]

A little phone sex for the cuckold. It seems fair. Better if he gets something out of his support of the lovers.

I guess Molly no longer loves her husband. But from my own experience with a loving, shared wife, a beautiful good hearted woman can be capable of loving two men at the same time. Even in the same bed. Of course the guys have to be capable of sharing her too. In our case we all became very close friends, whose mutual concern went beyond sex. And the sex was great!

[Guhunkadorn]

Finally caught up on this gem of a story and all I can say is thank you for taking the time to write and post it.

[Shauncuckold]

I am sure that Chris is enjoying the video and the phone time but I wonder if he is worrying that he might lose his wife. Maybe he is just enjoying the adventure until that time comes.

Mr. Swan

[Crushing]

A cool Monday morning.

Clean morning light streamed through recently wiped windows. A dull sheen betrayed recently waxed floors. The ancient brass doorknobs gleamed with the September polish, while traces of crisp autumn air followed students through the door as they tentatively looked for a place to sit.

Her outfit was smart. Attractive, but not too flashy.

Clean black matte flats and crisp white ankle socks rose to reveal pale, smooth, bare calves. From there, a knee length white pleated skirt pleated by a variety of geometric figures in a variety of fall colors. An uncomplicated sky-blue button up blouse tucked itself neatly into the skirt. And a modest white gold necklace hung around her neck with a small protestant cross dangling just below the suprasternal notch between the taunt of her clavicles.

She wore just enough makeup to even out the tone of her fair skin, a neutral lipstick punctuated the look with intentional subtlety. Her glasses had thin, jet-black rims framing the gun-barrel blue of her eyes. Her hair was pulled back into a sporty ponytail that hung just below the collar of her blouse. A cream colored sweater draped over the open book bag that sat near her feet at the base of a creaky old wooden lectern. The second hand of an old analog battery clock passed the twelve mark.

9:00 AM. She smiled nervously.

"Good morning, everybody. My name is Jordan Stark-Simms, and I hope everyone is in the right place. Before we dive in, I just want to point out that you can call me Jordan if you want, or Mrs. Simms, or whatever you're comfortable with. I do not respond to "Doctor," or "Professor," since I'm still only a doctoral candidate, and I don't have a Ph.D. I don't want to give you the impression that I'm senior faculty or anything. At least I hope I don't look that old…"

Jordan paused to grin. A tepid, transactional laugh found its way out of a few confused faces.

She cleared her throat awkwardly and turned around to write her name and contact information on the chalkboard as she continued her introduction. The click and drag sound of chalk on a board briefly reminded her of her childhood Sunday School.

"Since this is a sophomore class, we won't be digging too deeply into the more nuanced problems of, or trends in, epistemological thought, or the moves between empiricism, and idealism, or the advances in mathematics and their relationship to truth paradigms, or the shift from transcendental phenomenology into the broader phenomenological trends that gave birth to twentieth century existentialism with its multi varied offshoots, or the enduring conflicts of various branches of phenomenology with the various reboots in empiricism we keep encountering up to the present. As much as I'm sure we'd all like to."

Jordan paused for another laugh. Twenty three blank faces stared back at her. Her face reddened slightly. Eager to move on from the failed joke, she hastily pulled a narrow sheaf of papers out of a folder on the lectern.

"Only joking, of course…" she continued, counting off individual sheets of paper and distributing them to each row of students. "But as you can see in the syllabus I'm handing out, we will get a taste of these traditions, as well as a sampling of Enlightenment era political philosophy, the birth of economics as a sociological and historical paradigm, and then the slow emergence of a delicious buffet of thought in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. I hope by the end of the course you'll find sampling modern philosophy to be a fun way to engage history, psychology, and the world in general."

The class stared blankly at her. She began to redden again.

"Any questions about the syllabus? Or should we dive right in and talk about Descartes' world?"

A nervous hand went up in the second row.

"Yes! What's on your mind?" Jordan asked brightly, indicating toward the student who had her hand halfway up.

"Is this intro to modern philosophy or intro to modern psychology?"

"Philosophy," Jordan responded, smiling. "Did you accidentally go to the wrong class? It's no big deal."

"Actually," the student next to the first spoke up, "I have it here on my schedule. This is supposed to by modern psych."

"Really?" Jordan seemed perplexed. She walked over to the table in front of the chalkboard and, bending over her laptop, checked her schedule. The redness in her face darkened, and she stood up stiffly, clutching her hands awkwardly in a poor attempt to hide her mortified distress.

"So…" she said sheepishly, "Would you all mind passing those papers back to me?"

The class burst into laughter. .Red-faced, Jordan joined them with her own nervous laugh, holding back tears of embarrassment.

"So, are you in the wrong class? I do have Jordan Stark-Simms listed as the instructor here," the second student said, pointing to his laptop.

"No, I'm in the right room, right time, I just mixed up my morning and afternoon classes. I'm so embarrassed you guys…" The class laughed genuinely as she tucked the papers back into a black folder, then hastily tucked the black folder into her book bag. She then pulled out a red folder, and held it prominently in front of her. "Okay! Intro to modern psych. Let's hit the reset button, shall we?"

The room was all smiles as Jordan passed out the appropriate syllabus and began her introduction over again.

"So…psychology, unlike philosophy, is a discipline that relies primarily on an empirical approach to human thought and behavior. There are some very sticky methodological problems with examining human structures of thought and behavior, not to mention the evasive concept of "mind" in general when all researchers are, themselves, examining their subjects from the vantage points of the researchers' own thoughts and behaviors. Trying to be truly objective in psychology is a complex game, as many philosophers have astutely observed.

"As you have probably guessed by now, my own area of research and expertise has a foot in both of these worlds. I am not studying to be a clinician, I'm more of a big ideas kind of gal. So while I have strong interests in psychological studies, models, statistics, case studies, diagnostic criteria, and so on, I am also very interested in the big questions that seem to be at least partially inaccessible to empirical research, like, how do we define emotion? Or what is beauty?


"So, I'll give an example. I am profoundly interested in the impact of opposite-gendered caregivers–think fathers with daughters or mothers with sons–on the development of cognitive capacity and emotional stability, and the overall impact on a stable identity, or a stable sense of who we are. A sense of self, if you will. This kind of question is very accessible to studies that produce data in the form of numbers. How many children with or without opposite gender caregivers meet developmental milestones, form meaningful relationships on their own, and/or fall into maladaptive behaviors such as crime, addiction, or even suicide. We can measure things like that, and hypothesize patterns based on the data.

"But on the other hand, as soon as I read those studies, I find myself asking questions such as, 'what exactly do we mean by 'identity?'' Is counting the ones that graduate college versus the ones that go to prison really a meaningful answer to the question of stable identity? Obviously not. But questions like this are conceptually squishy, and numbers rarely go very far in answering them. Which is why I love the dual approach, as I find things work best in dialogue. Numbers and ideas. Questions with answers that raise more questions. And when two approaches to the same question talk to each other, or when two kinds of questions end up having the same answer, amazing new things can come to light. Entirely new paradigms and models of thought and behavior. I love it when that happens!"

Jordan slapped the lectern to punctuate her enthusiasm. Jordan's genuine excitement got her class smiling with her–a fact she noted with pleasure as she continued.

"This means I often find myself butting heads with one side or the other. The numbers guys and the philosophy guys. And they're almost always guys, ladies. Let me tell you…"

The girls laughed.

"This also means that when I publish my work, I am going to annoy empirical researchers who think I'm entirely too squishy, but I will equally annoy pure philosophy types who find my work to be cluttered with too many numbers and case-study anecdotes. My career goal is to have absolutely no friends when I retire."

Another genuine laugh rose out of the class. The redness was fading from her face as she saw she was genuinely gaining their attention. Her pose relaxed, and she smiled broadly.

"So, naturally this means my approach to this course is going to be a little different than others. Don't worry, we'll hit all the wickets and benchmarks set by the department. Have no fear. Those of you who are majoring or will go on to major in psychology, as I did, will still get a good sampling of the evolution of mental health paradigms, social constructs, and methodological approaches that bring us to the present state of the discipline, although you may be annoyed at how often I reference writers and thinkers you've never heard of."

Jordan paused to walk to the chalkboard, then continued to talk as she began to write.

"Those of you who are majoring or will go on to major in philosophy, as I did, will get a lot of opportunity to make connections between new empirical models of mind with classical, enlightenment, and more contemporary approaches to the grand questions of life and meaning, but you'll have to learn science stuff too."

"Mrs, uh…Jordan?"

"Yes?" Jordan turned around to see a young man with glasses tentatively raising his hand.

"Which is it? You said you majored in both."

"Yep!" Jordan said brightly. "Dual major, one bachelor's degree. Then two masters' degrees, one in each, and my Ph.D includes philosophical research. I thought about doing two Ph.Ds, but I got married, and my husband likes to see me sometimes."

The class laughed again. Jordan stepped away from the board to reveal a phrase, all capital letters in a firm but feminine script:

WHO AM I?

She began to pace slowly back and forth, establishing roving eye contact around the room as she gauged individual students' reactions and developed her thoughts.

"I know most of you are here for a credit or a grade. And don't worry, you'll get both. But I'm not here to give grades. I'm here to get you to ask hard questions and make attempts at good answers. And at the heart of my approach is this seemingly simple question."

She tapped the question on the board gently with her extended fingertips.

WHO AM I?

"This question is particularly targeted to you guys. You're probably aware on some level that this question governs and motivates most of the aspects of your lives right now. It's a tough question. I think in some ways, it's an impossible question. And everyone in this room, including me, is fumbling around with it. But you all are in the thick of it, having just left your homes and the communities that raised you. Here you are in college, living on your own for the first time. You're not children anymore, but you also likely don't see yourselves as grown ups. So you're emerging from your own little chrysalis. You're trying on different hats, poking around different areas of study, changing your clothing styles. You're deciding if you like this party scene, or that sport. You're meeting different versions of yourself–your hobby self, your drunk self, your romantic self, your sports fanatic self.

"You're trying on ideas. Political affiliations, ethical systems, maybe even religions or spiritual traditions. You're finding out if you believe what your parents believe. You're deciding what ideas to accept and what ones to reject. You're making decisions about what beliefs to hide from your friends and what ones to celebrate with them. You might even find yourself choosing some beliefs to evangelize, to take on the road. To try to persuade others to join your side.

"But it goes further than that. You're also trying to answer the question through the relationships you find yourself in. You have new friends. You're probably dating new people. You're going on great dates and terrible dates, and you're trying to figure out the difference. You may find yourself experimenting in new areas of the tangled and fraught world of sexuality and sexual identity. And in all of these realms you may find yourself surprised by how much you like something you had never considered an option before. And then–particularly in the sexual realm–you're probably grappling with the fraught question: do I celebrate this discovery, whatever it is, or do I conceal it from my friends and family?

"All of these things interact dynamically–in infinite complexity–with that three pound mass composed of a gigantic Gordion knot: some hundred billion-odd neurons that hide behind your eyes."

Jordan tapped her head provocatively.

"Think about it. How can you know what or who you are, if the thing that does the knowing is basically unknowable. Do you really know your own brain? You know, that thing you never see, but is the thing that allows you to see? The thing that enables you to exist, think, breathe, love, and exist in the world, but that same thing you never touch, smell, hear, or interact with directly? That's right. The human brain lies at the center of all experience, but is itself trapped and inaccessible."

Jordan smirked imperceptibly as she looked at the widening eyes of her students. She stopped in the center in front of the lectern and leaned back on it, folding her arms casually.

"The key to understanding the brain, or the essence of the human (the two objects of study of the psychologist and the philosopher, respectively) seems to require us to observe its effects more than the thing itself. While MRI research and neuroscience generally has provided some interesting data, very few breakthrough answers to any of the big-time questions seems to have come from that avenue of research. Because somewhere buried in that maze of a hundred billion some-odd neurons, there arises…"

Jordan pulled a small mirror off of the lectern behind her and walked to a girl in the front row, holding up a small reflection of herself to her.

"Somewhere buried in that maze of a hundred billion neurons, there arises an entity. A thing that looks at itself and says…'this is me!' This entity–identity, or the thing we all identify as 'me'--it is a thing of astonishing complexity. Cosmic complexity, even. Not the least because that identity, that sense of "me," is constantly reinventing itself in new social, ethical, sexual, ideological, and practical ways."

She pulled the mirror back and walked back to the lectern, leaning against it again.

"Given the staggering complexity of the question, I certainly won't be able to provide the answer of 'who am I?' for any of you. That's your own journey, and it may well be the most meaningful journey of your life, and will probably only end when your life ends. My hope is that as we spend class time together, I can acquaint you with some of the bigger nodes of meaning–the more central facets of the question. And it's a real hum-dinger of a question, as my dad used to say. This is the question that has motivated my own career path. It's the question that has me staring blankly at the wall at dinner time. The question that has my husband asking me if I'm okay because I look catatonic with a forkful of spaghetti frozen halfway to my mouth for entire minutes at a time."

Another chuckle rippled around the classroom. Her smile faded slightly, a thoughtful yet slightly ambiguous look on her face.

"Not all of you will be as preoccupied with this question as I will. It's likely that some of you have shallow enough personalities that your life will be preoccupied with material acquisition, career success, and petty distractions. But those of you with a little depth of personality will likely have an unsettling experience at some point in your life."

Jordan's eyes seemed to mist slightly, unfocusing and growing distant as she folded her arms again.

"A day where you…uh…a day where you…uh…meet someone…in the mirror. Someone that seems to be a part of you, but who you don't fully recognize. You may feel…a kind of uncanny call to explore or even embrace a part of you that you didn't know existed, or that you encounter for the first time. You might feel a call that summons you from a deep, deep place, inviting you to explore that deep place. A place that may appear dark and scary. A new part of yourself that frankly scares you. A realm of experience that may hold the potential for tremendous growth, but also seems to threaten your very sense of self and safety…"

She trailed off for a minute, then shook her head and snapped back, smiling.

"See? I just did it. Drifted off into the deep water of the question."

The class laughed again.

"Now, let's dive in and kick this concept around a little, shall we? Let's have a little fun before we hit the books."

She picked up a piece of chalk from the chalkboard tray and held it out.

"I need a volunteer. Someone come to the board and draw me a picture of a house, a tree, and a person. And then prepare to be analyzed…"

Another chuckle rolled through the room as a few hands shot up.

* * *

It was a small courtroom, tucked in a back corner of Division headquarters. A building that Sergeant Rein had never had reason to visit before. He had been ushered through a series of narrow hallways by his appointed JAG lawyer until they arrived at the room.

He had found the room lacking in the kind of grandiose drama he expected. No cavernous ceilings with rich wood-paneled walls. Instead, a small setup included the elevated seat and desk for the judge, a small, lower witness box next to it, and a third box perpendicular to the judge, where three marines, a sergeant, a first sergeant, and a warrant officer were already seated as the jury. The prosecution and defense tables were small, with two seats each, and two rows of cheap chairs without armrests were arranged behind the tables for spectators.

Mark walked toward the defense table behind his lawyer, nodding gratefully in acknowledgment as he passed the little group of spectators. Jared, dressed carefully in his service uniform with coat and tie, complete with his recently awarded purple heart and bronze star dangling on the left side of his jacket, nodded back stoically. On his right, Megan was dressed in a business casual blouse and skirt, smiling helplessly at him in support. She had taken a day off from wrangling junior high schoolers to be there for Mark. He told her not to, but secretly appreciated the effort.

On Jared's left sat Molly, carefully dressed in a smart blue sweater and black skirt, her eyebrows raised in solicitous concern as Mark made eye contact with her. Mark smiled casually, trying to defuse the tension.

Lieutenant Macintosh sat at the opposite table with his lawyer, fastidiously avoiding eye contact with anyone.

"Ten-hut!"

The courtroom stood, the military members snapping to attention as the military judge, a surly looking colonel who looked to be in his mid sixties, walked confidently in and sat down in his place, pulling reading glasses out of a case on the desk and putting them on before glancing at the papers in front of him.

"Be seated."

The judge's voice was wispy. Almost as if he had spent decades yelling at people. He began to speak.

"The special court martial has been convened to adjudicate the accusation of assault and battery of a commissioned officer by an enlisted marine. Is the accused present?"

Mark stood.

"Identify yourself for the record, sergeant," the judge ordered.

"Sergeant Mark Rein, sir. Present for duty."

"Very well, sergeant. Be seated. Is the prosecution prepared?"

"We are, sir." The prosecutor was a first lieutenant in her mid twenties who stood calm and confident, rattling off a series of unit numbers, dates, deployment identifiers establishing the basic facts of "who, what, and where" at issue in the case, then finally arrived at the meat of the matter.

"We intend to prove that Sergeant Mark Rein did, with malicious intent, threaten, assault, and batter his superior officer and platoon commander, Lieutenant Brian Macintosh, as part of a pattern of harm that led to deliberately endangering the life of the lieutenant in combat actions thereafter."

"Very well," the judge replied. "How does the defense plead?"

"Not guilty." Mark's lawyer stood and spoke confidently. He was slightly older than the prosecutor, and higher ranked–a captain. Mark didn't know him well, but he seemed like he was more experienced.

"And a point of order, sir…"

"Proceed." The judge looked at Mark's lawyer over his glasses.

"I'm aware that charges of conspiring grievous harm in a combat situation were considered by the prosecution, but that those charges were never filed. If the prosecutor wishes to file charges of reckless endangerment, the proceedings need to be postponed until we are sufficiently briefed to respond."

"Correct," the prosecutor stood to respond. "We are not charging Sergeant Rein with conspiracy to commit or allow grievous harm, but we are including the facts that came from that investigation, including the wounding of Lieutenant Macintosh in battle, in order to establish malicious intent for the charges of assault and battery."

"The defense submits that the allegations of conspiracy are irrelevant to the course of action against Sergeant Rein. The Taliban laid the IED that hit the lieutenant, not my client. If he is accused of such a thing, then the prosecution is obliged to help the court find that he did in fact conspire to cause or allow grievous bodily harm. And if he is accused, formal charges and procedures should be the avenue of that course of action. If he is not accused, then there is no finding of fact, and any such proof of intent will be predicated on hearsay. The defense moves that any reference to any such investigation, or to the combat mishap that wounded the lieutenant would be either irrelevant or prejudicial, and should therefore not be admissible."

The judge nodded, turning back to the prosecutor and raising his eyebrows.

"The prosecution is ready to prove a pattern of malice, and evidence from that part of the investigation is relevant to establishing that pattern."

"Is that the only evidence you have to establish the pattern of malice?"

"No, sir. We have other evidence, but…it…uh, yes sir. We have other evidence."

"The defense's objection is sustained. Without finding of fact on the matter of conspiracy, the use of that evidence would be hearsay. Furthermore, I am aware that other marines were injured and killed by the same cluster of IEDs, and no one is speaking for them. The captain is correct–the Taliban buried those weapons, not Sergeant Rein. The jury will disregard any reference to any conspiracy to cause or allow grievous harm in combat."

Mark's lawyer sat down, as the prosecutor reached down for her legal pad, clearly flustered.

"What the fuck is happening right now..?" Jared whispered quietly to Megan, seated next to him.

Megan cupped her hand and whispered into his ear. "He's saying they can't use any evidence from the investigation that tried to prove Mark wanted Macintosh killed by an IED. It's the worst evidence they have against him, and they can't use it. This is good for Mark."

Jared nodded. "How do you know this shit?" he whispered back.

"I watch a ton of Law and Order. So I know everything. And I can tell the prosecutor's totally new. Look at her squirm."

Jared nodded again, a hint of a smile breaking. He looked over at Molly, whose attention was fixed forward, unbreakable.

"Is the prosecution ready to proceed?"

"We are, sir. Yes."

"Very well. Proceed."

* * *

"No lunch date today?" Jordan asked her office mate.

Patrick shook his head, leaning back his chair and chewing on his first bite of sandwich.

Jordan sat in her chair a few desk hutches down from Patrick, unzipping her own lunch bag. "You used to go to lunch with Christy like…every day! What gives?"

Patrick shrugged, still chewing. Swallowing his first bite, he finally answered. "Christy's interviewing for a grown-up job. She's done with her degree now. She's not just hanging around in the middle of the day waiting for me anymore."

Jordan grinned, lifting up her water bottle in a mock toast. "Well, someday that'll be us, right? To grown-up jobs after a decade of…whatever the heck we do all day."

Patrick laughed, picking up his own water bottle and completing her mock toast. They both took a deep drink and continued eating.

"So how'd your first class go?" Patrick asked. "It was this morning, right? My first one is tomorrow afternoon."

Jordan threw her head back and sighed dramatically.

"That bad, huh?" Patrick sympathized.

Jordan sat up straight again and grinned. "No, not really. I just forgot which class I was supposed to be teaching. I had two first-day introductory spiels all planned out to grab students' attention, and I started the psych class with the philosophy one."

Patrick laughed out loud. "Wow. That's…how'd you recover from that?"

Jordan blushed, taking another bite of her sandwich. "I just owned it," she admitted, talking with her mouth full before swallowing again. "I just said I grabbed the wrong folder, then I switched it out and hit the reset button. It went fine after that. They thought it was funny."

"Nice…" Patrick nodded. "Way to think on your feet. So you had psych this morning…when do you teach philosophy?"

"In…" Jordan looked down at her phone. "42 minutes. I'm gonna eat and head over, make sure I can find the classroom. I've only been in the Reynolds building once before, and it was this morning. And I forgot which class I was teaching. So I'm taking any chances."

"Yeah," Patrick nodded. "It's where the underlings teach the basic classes. Just a rectangle building filled with smaller rectangles of rooms. It's like a Soviet Bloc apartment complex or something. With all the amenities that go along with that. Get ready for 90 year old desks and chairs. Oh, and like, for-real chalkboards with chalk. No whiteboards over there."

Jordan's eyebrows raised. "Yeah, I saw that. The last room had chalk on the tray, but do I need to stop by the bookstore and get chalk? I've already started carrying my own whiteboard markers since they're never in the room…"

"Yeah, I'd grab some chalk just in case. Actually, I think I have some in my desk…" he rummaged through his top drawer, eventually producing a small box, which rattled with a few loose sticks of chalk. He tossed it over to Jordan who caught it with her non-sandwich hand.

"Furnks…" Jordan said with her mouth full. She blushed, took a moment to finish chewing, then repeated herself. "Thanks. I owe you some chalk."

"Don't worry about it," Patrick replied.

They ate in silence for a few moments, with Jordan casually flipping through the book she'd been marking up for most of the morning.

"Is that Schenk?" Patrick asked.

"Yep," Jordan answered, turning a page with one finger.

"Reading up on weird sex stuff?"

Jordan flashed a smile toward Patrick. "More like reading up on the people who do weird sex stuff. But, yeah, more or less."

"When's he doing the visit?"

"Three weeks. He gets here on Wednesday night, he's doing two of Lukacz' seminar classes on Thursday, then doing his keynote lecture on Thursday night. Then the rest of the conference sections come Friday and Saturday."

"And you're doing the rebuttal?"

"More of a response. But yeah."

"How long's his lecture, and how long is your response?"

"His lecture's an hour. My response is supposed to be like twenty minutes, but with open discussion after. So I'll be on the hot seat for a while."

Patrick nodded, silently concealing his jealousy. He would kill for the opportunity to be center stage among a large gathering of influential academics. Especially when he knew she would likely be introduced and bragged about by Lukacz. She would definitely find a good first job after graduating if this went well.

"So, are you gonna tear him apart? Schenk, I mean?" He asked.

Jordan looked up and took a drink from her water bottle before setting it back on her desk and picking up her sandwich again.

"Schenk? No. I mean, I think his fundamental premise is flawed, so I'll be pushing him on that, and then some other details. But to be honest, I'm just not an expert on weird sex stuff. I think Lukacz just wants to see if I choke."

"Yeah, could be. Still, huge opportunity. How many people are supposed to be at the conference?"

"Couple hundred, I think."

"And at least a quarter of them will be on search committees. Could be good for landing your first job…"

Jordan snorted, chewing her next bite before responding.

"Not sure how I feel about my first impression with search committee members being an extended foray into weird sex stuff."

"Then you probably shouldn't have studied psychology," Patrick quipped.

Jordan laughed out loud. "Fair point…"

They ate in silence for another few moments, then Patrick pressed her again.

"So what's Schenk's thesis? What's his whole conceptual approach to weird sex stuff?"

"It's hard to pin down, actually. That's one of the things I'm going to be pressing him on. His basic assumptions are vague. But overall it seems like he's trying to make the case for BDSM practices having a kind of stabilizing effect on personality given the community's emphasis on consent practices, and a tendency for community members to be open to exploration and, by extension, personal growth."

"So nipple clamps and whips cause your personality to stabilize?"

"More or less…" Jordan smiled into her book.

"So what's your response?"

"I'm not totally sure yet…" Jordan said thoughtfully. "Something along the lines of extreme sexual practices being predicated on impulses and behaviors that have strong parallels with other addictions. Since addiction obviously has huge negative impacts on personality stabilization, I might contend that BDSM runs the risk of personality or even identity disintegration. It is predicated on segmented scenes of lived fantasy, after all. And building identity on fantasy just isn't stabilizing. The Don Quixote effect. But instead of living in a fantasy world of medieval chivalry, it's just…weird sex stuff. And also I'm thinking I might look into whether the perceived benefits that Schenk is talking about can be construed in similar ways with gambling, substance, or other sex addictions. But I'm not sure about that, haven't really thought it through."

She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully.

"Wow." Patrick was impressed. "Sounds like you've got it whipped. No pun intended."

"Funny…" Jordan flashed another smile at Patrick, popping the last bite of sandwich in her mouth.

"So is it individual BDSM practices, or just the whole culture or sphere of activity in general that destabilizes personality? In your view?"

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the experience is pretty different depending on a lot of factors, right? You can't imagine the same effect happens to the dominant participant and the submissive participant in a power exchange, right? So there's likely to be mirror effects that may reflect personality instability. And what about the difference between physical pain and stuff like verbal humiliation? Do they all have the same effect?"

Jordan squinted thoughtfully, a hint of her dissertation face finding its way to the surface. "I hadn't thought about breaking it down quite that far. It's interesting, but I don't know if I have time in my twenty minutes."

"Seems like the kind of question you might get asked after you finish presenting, though…" Patrick offered.

"You're right." Jordan's eyebrow dropped, and she turned to her laptop to begin a google search. "Thanks for that feedback. I need to take a look at some of these individual strains of activity, see how they fit together."

"Just don't do it here," Patrick laughed.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sure you've done scholarly lit reviews and stuff, but if you actually start googling individual BDSM practices while you're on the university wifi…it seems like the kind of thing that might get someone from HR to show up here.

Jordan's hand shot up to cover her mouth. "Oh my god…you're totally right. I didn't even think about that!"

Patrick grinned. "Just lookin' out for ya."

Jordan giggled. "Well, I'll just have to do that on my own time, and my own wifi I suppose…"

"Suppose so…" Patrick shook his head knowingly and began to pack up the remnants of his lunch into the bag. Jordan did the same, then looked at the time on her phone again.

"Well…thanks for the advice, Patrick. And the chalk. You're super helpful. I'm going to head over to the Reynolds building, get set up before the little sophomore gremlins show up. This time I actually know what class I'm teaching…"

"I still can't believe you're teaching in two departments before you even graduate…" Patrick said admiringly.

Jordan shrugged. "Yeah, well…they needed people, and I just so happen to have an MA in it, so…lucky me, right?"

"Lucky you…" Patrick turned back to his laptop and open dissertation work as Jordan stood and gathered her things.

"Seriously, Pat, thanks. That was really helpful advice. And it's always good to just talk through stuff with a colleague. Please feel free to bounce ideas off me for your stuff if you need to."

"I will," Patrick said over his shoulder as Jordan picked up her book bag and headed out the office door.

* * *

"State your name and rank for the record."

"Sergeant Mark Rein."

Mark sat nervously in the witness box, leaning stiffly forward and clasping his large hands together. The prosecutor stood at an angle to his right, her small frame standing barely taller than Mark was while seated in the box.

Directly across from Mark in the small courtroom, just off center in the first of two rows of spectators, sat Molly. It wasn't planned, but every time he faced directly forward, Mark found her green eyes holding his with a concerned smile. He noticed two small gold studs with Marine Corps insignia flashed on her earlobes under her bright red hair.

New earrings. For him.

He smiled back.

"Is that your girlfriend, Sergeant?"

Mark's head snapped toward the prosecutor questioning him.

He nodded.

"Answer out loud please, Sergeant. For the record."

"Yeah, that's my girlfriend."

"She came to support you. That's nice…" The young lieutenant intoned genially.

"Yeah, it is…" Mark responded flatly, holding the lieutenant's gaze. "Why do you care?"

"At ease, Sergeant…" the judge interjected sternly. "I understand you're nervous, but you're still addressing a commissioned officer in the US Marine Corps."

"Aye, sir." Mark sat up straight. "Apologies ma'am. Yes, that's my girlfriend, and it is nice she's here."

"She seems nice."

Mark didn't like the line of questioning. "She is. She's also irrelevant to the case…Ma'am."

He added the "ma'am" to take the edge off his voice. The young lieutenant was getting on his nerves.

"That's true, Sergeant. I'm just trying to establish rapport here."

"You're failing, ma'am. Move on."

The judge grunted.

"With due respect," Mark added hastily.

The prosecutor smiled. Mark caught Molly's eyes, still concerned but sparkling with his open endorsement of their relationship to strangers.

He winked at her.

"Fair enough," the prosecutor conceded. "You and I don't have to get along to get at the truth, Sergeant Rein. I will say, however, that a review of your personnel records has been an inspiring journey. Honor graduate from basic training. Commendations. Meritorious promotions to both Corporal and Sergeant. A purple heart, and glowing fitness reports. And I have a note here that says you've been recommended, but not approved for a silver star. Is that correct?"

Mark shrugged. "I'd heard about that, but if it hasn't been approved, I didn't earn it. So no silver star. The rest of the stuff is probably true, though."

"Modest. I like it. But I just want to acknowledge before we get into it…you appear on paper to be an exemplary marine. On paper."

Mark didn't respond, letting the silence get awkward.

"Moving on…" the prosecutor continued. "I'd just like to establish a sense of the working relationship you had with your platoon commander before we get to the incident that brings us here today."

"Shoot. Ma'am." Mark's voice remained flat. Cool.

"In your previous statements, you indicated that Lieutenant Macintosh gave you quite a bit of latitude in your role as platoon sergeant."

"That's accurate."

"So you ran much of the day-to-day operations in the platoon, you were well regarded by members of your platoon, and you ran a pretty tight ship."

"Sure."

"You remain in the billet of platoon sergeant presently, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you collaborate with the Lieutenant on major projects?"

"Not really. He preferred to hang out in the command hut and watch movies on his laptop."

"So you attested in writing. So he never left the command hut?"

"No, he did. He came out on patrols sometimes, and on one major operation."

"The one where he was injured."

"Yyyyyeeesss…Yep." Mark drew out his answer awkwardly.

"You hesitated there, sergeant. Was he not there?"

"No, he was there."

"Well, was he not injured then?"

"I can't speak to his injuries. Others were injured during that operation, and some killed. I never saw his wounds, and he seemed fine to me at the time. But I understand he took some shrapnel."

"That's not an injury?"

"It is. I just didn't see it myself, as several others of my marines were in much worse shape. That's all I'm saying."

"You sound disappointed."

Mark's eyes narrowed. "I'm not, ma'am. And I don't mean to sound that way."

"You didn't even check on him after he got hit by an IED?"

THOMP…THOMP…

Two huge dust clouds rose in a thick pillar of topsoil and moon dust off to his right. Mark briefly found himself caught in the memory before shaking out of it. His head twitched slightly before refocusing on the prosecutor.

"I…we…um, We were taking fire…"

Mark heard the rapid tats of small arms fire as the front line walls of the village clouded his view of the courtroom. Through the mist of his mind's eye, he could see Molly's eyes widen in recognition across the courtroom.

"We uh…we had operational responsibility to keep moving. I dragged the casualties I could out of the line of fire, but then we pushed into the village. I didn't have time to check on him."

"No time to verify that your commanding officer was alive? Not even to check?"

Mark's nostrils flared. Across the room, Molly quietly stood and darted toward the defense table, leaning over the bar and whispering in his lawyer's ear.

Mark's memory zeroed in on the image of Jett lying crumpled in the street. The sound of gunfire in his mind became louder, and he couldn't make out the prosecutor's next question.

"I'm sorry…"

"I said, it seems like…"

"Objection!"

Mark's attention snapped back into the room to see his lawyer standing.

"Yes?" The judge's voice was calm.

Mark blinked in surprise. How was everyone else so calm? His heart raced, he could feel himself starting to sweat. His ears were beginning to ring.

"You ruled that any reference to my client's culpability in an alleged scheme to cause grievous bodily harm to Lieutenant Macintosh was irrelevant to the course of action undertaken in this case. This incident is immaterial. It happened well after the alleged assault."

"Sir, the prosecution simply wants to establish a pattern of disregard for his commanding officer. The episode is material to that end."

The judge looked back over at Mark's lawyer.

"I disagree, sir. Furthermore, the incident is a deeply upsetting one to Sergeant Rein, as he lost men that day. And I remind the court that when I cross examined Lieutenant Macintosh earlier, he couldn't even name the marines killed that day. If we want to establish a pattern of disregard, that argument cuts hard the other way. The case should be confined to whether or not what transpired in the command hut on the night in question constituted an assault on a superior officer. That is all."

The judge paused, then answered.

"Objection is sustained. Stick to the facts, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir."

Mark's breathing remained heavy, his pupils dilated. He still felt his heart pounding.

He looked across at Molly, who had just sat down again. Her eyes were wide with concern. She made a signal to him–her hand flat and horizontal, slowly descending from her eye level down to her collar bone.

Calm. Down.

Mark took a deep breath and turned to face the prosecutor again. His heart remained erratic, thumping in his chest as he began to fidget in his chair.

"So, I suppose we can get right to the night in question. You assaulted Lieutenant Macintosh because…"

"Objection. Leading." Mark's lawyer interjected.

"Sustained."

"Apologies, Sergeant. Why don't you tell us what happened in the…confrontation?" She looked at the judge, who nodded in approval.

"Sure. I was returning from doing a map review ahead of a major mission…"

"This was the mission we were just talking about, right?"

Mark nodded. "Yes."

"You were reviewing the maps with the Lieutenant?"

"No, with my number 2. Corporal Poisson."

"So you reviewed major plans for a significant assault operation with your immediate subordinate, but not with your immediate superior."

"Correct."

"Interesting. And this Corporal Poisson…he was involved in the planning."

"Is that relevant? Ma'am?" Mark's eyes narrowed again.

"Not to this case, perhaps. But I'd like it on the record. In case we revisit the issue of Lieutenant Macintosh's injuries, we'd probably like to look at Corporal Poisson's role in planning the event, as well as yours."

Mark's eyes flared. He looked over at the gallery and saw Megan's hand covering her mouth. Seated next to her, he saw Jared's lips tightening. Mark clenched his jaw, accenting the bullet scar.

Molly waved to get his attention, then repeated her earlier hand motion as he looked at her.

Calm. Down.

He nodded, and she pressed her fingers together in a heart shape.

Mark smiled uneasily.

He took another breath. "The meeting was to inform French…Corporal Poisson about my plans. My plans. Mine. As I made abundantly clear in my earlier statements. But it doesn't matter. I talked with my number 2 for a minute outside the command hut, walked inside, and saw Lieutenant Macintosh using my laptop. I confronted him, and he backed off."

"So you threw him across the room because he touched your stuff?"

"Basically, yeah. But it wasn't an intentional assault. I really just pushed him away. From my stuff."

"What was on your laptop?"

"Objection!" Mark's lawyer stood. "Irrelevant."

"I'm trying to establish a timeline, sir. The contents of the laptop are material to Sergeant Rein's emotional reaction, and his emotional state constitutes the difference between nudging my client and assaulting him," the prosecutor explained.

"Overruled. Continue."

The prosecutor turned back to Mark. "So?"

"Pictures." Mark muttered.

"Pictures of what?" She leaned in toward Mark, lowering her voice.

"Private pictures. They were personal." He began to squeeze the wooden arm rest on the witness chair.

Thomp. Thomp.

Mark couldn't see past the dust clouds, still rising in front of him. He struggled to understand the questions being put to him, but it was difficult to follow. He thought he caught a whiff of loose moon dust…

"Oh," the prosecutor nodded. "I see. Personal pictures. Private pictures. I could see how you'd want to protect them. Pictures of your dog?"

Mark shook his head. "No."

The intimate images flashed in his mind, interspersed with the earlier flashes of combat. Images of Molly playfully and lovingly exposing her body to him. Only for him. He saw Macintosh's tongue hanging out as he tried to figure out the password so that he could violate Mark's girlfriend with his beady, useless, little bitch eyes.

He heard the prosecutor continue, her voice distant in his mind. "Pictures of…maybe your grandmother? Your eighth grade trip to Six Flags? Help me out here, Sergeant."

Mark caught Molly's eye, which were deeply concerned and solicitous as they tried to hold his gaze. In his mind's eye, a blood trail coming from Jett's chest followed him down the alley as the sound of jet engines rose higher and closer.

Mark grunted, shaking his head again. His right hand gripped the wooden arm rest so hard it began to creak.

"So…I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest the pictures were of the more…intimate kind."

The prosecutor stuck her finger out and swung her arm around toward the gallery, pointing at Molly.

"Maybe pictures of her?"

Molly's mouth took hasty cover under her pale hand. Shocked and humiliated, her pale, freckled face drained of its remaining color.

Mark shot up out of his seat, standing straight up and inadvertently ripping the arm rest completely off the chair. Towering over the prosecutor, she saw his eyes on fire, gripping a weapon of opportunity–a severed wooden armrest with nails sticking out of it. She quickly retreated, stepping back five paces even though Mark made no clear move to threaten or attack.

Mark's heart pounded faster, and the contours of his jaw distended the skin of his face as he audibly bared and gritted his teeth.

The three man jury all looked panicked, poised to jump over and restrain Mark before he hurt the smaller woman. The judge smacked the gavel on his desk.

"Sergeant! Stand down immediately! That's an order!"

* * *

"It's pronounced Moo-kek-a?"

David quizzed his host as they sat across from each other in a small Rio de Janeiro cafe overlooking the warm Atlantic ocean.

"Correct. But spelled M-O-Q-U-E-C-A. It is a fish soup, but is very tasty. You like?"

David nodded enthusiastically. "I do. It's very good. But it's really not necessary to take me out to dinner, I'm just here to do the audit and I'll be on my way. Although I do appreciate the gesture, of course. You're very kind."

The middle aged man, wearing smooth khaki pants and a bright yellow polo shirt smiled widely.

"It's my pleasure, Mr. Stark. We want you to feel welcome and at home when you visit Rio."

"I haven't even been to the dock yard yet." David took another mouthful of soup, closing his eyes as the flavor and texture melted in his mouth.

"We'll get there in the morning. We'll arrive just at shift change. Everyone is excited to meet you."

David shook his head, confused. "I don't know why. I'm not anyone important. I'm just observing."

His host shook his head, smiling. "I can see you want me to be direct, Mr. Stark. Yes?"

"Please."

Bzzz bzzzz

David lifted his index finger to pause the conversation while he checked his phone. "So sorry. One moment."

The man smiled and paused, looking thoughtfully out at the view as David checked his messages.

From Jordan.

J: Hey, baby. Miss you.

David quickly typed back.

D: Miss you too baby. Everything okay? I'm in a meeting, I can call after a while.

He waited as three dots flashed on the screen until her response came.

J: No, no rush. But I thought I'd just give you a heads up about something.

David's eyebrows raised under his glasses.

D: What's up?

J:

David's face warmed, and he began to fidget slightly in his chair. He took a breath to compose himself, before responding

D:

He set his phone face down on the table.

"I'm sorry, please continue…" David took another spoonful of the delicious fish stew.

"Mr. Stark, we are periodically visited by efficiency auditors such as yourself. We understand the reason, of course. Efficiency is crucial to the smooth operation of the port and the company's operations within the port. But the last visit resulted in several dozen of my workers losing their jobs."

David forced himself to shift focus to the conversation. "How? Did my predecessor recommend layoffs?"

"Your predecessor seemed…desperate to cut costs, and insisted we could cover our workload with a ten percent reduction. We have been struggling ever since, and the laid off workers have families to feed. You understand…"

David caught his eye looking down at his phone, hoping for the next buzz before responding.

"I do understand. And I will tell you that I rarely find layoffs to be useful for the kinds of efficiency gains that I aim for. In fact, if I identify slack in the line anywhere, I may recommend hiring more to address the issue. Other than that, I'm a believer in re-allocation over reduction. I assure you, if I recommend layoffs, it will only be after I've tried everything else."

"That is good to hear." His host smiled widely as David took his last bite of stew. His host signaled the waiter to clean up, then ordered some cake for dessert.

They chatted amiably, David trying to understand the national fascination with soccer, and his host explaining the game and the fan culture with mild amusement, all the while waiting for the next bzzz.

David continued to shift in his chair as several minutes passed. His phone remained dark and blank on the table, well past the completion of the dessert and coffee.

"You seem tense, Mr. Stark. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine." He smiled. "Just, some…unconcluded business at home, I'm anxious to hear the results when things have run their course."

His host nodded again. "Is there anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable? Some…companionship, perhaps?"

David shook his head, his cheeks flushing. "Definitely not. I'd just like to get some sleep and get to work first thing tomorrow. I'm all business. And very, very happily married, if that's unclear."

"Of course. I'll walk you back to your hotel."

They continued to chat on the short walk back, a mild buzz tickling David's thigh as they approached the lobby. David left the phone in his pocket and shook his host's hand graciously, smiling as he made his way stiffly to the elevator. As the doors closed shut behind him, he pulled his phone out and

J:

The flush in his cheeks returned. He instinctively clutched his stiffness through his pants, bending over slightly and pacing in the empty elevator, clearly overstimulated. He looked at the blossom again and again, squeezing himself each time before he heard the elevator ding on his floor. He rearranged himself and walked briskly to his room, awkwardly wiggling through the hotel room door after opening it. It had barely clicked shut when he wrestled his pants down to his knees and began tweaking his erection erratically.

"God…oh god…" He whispered as he looked at the phone again.

J:

A silly little symbol. But the reception of the message hit David like a sexual sledgehammer. The little animation signified the confluence of his fantasy with reality–that the most attractive woman in the world had found herself in a state of arousal, that she had decided to masturbate, and that she had told him.

J:

What had aroused her? What prompted her to acknowledge and address her needs?

He stared at the phone as the tide of his excitement rose to engulf his stiffness:

J:

David squinted and gasped in climax, a dribble dropping from the tip of his small penis into the open top of his crumpled khaki work pants. Leaning against the hotel dresser, he collected himself, caught his breath, and then pulled his pants up before calling his wife.

It rang twice.

"Hey honey!" Her voice sounded smooth. Bright. Relaxed.

"Oh, baby…you're so great…" David gushed.

Jordan giggled. "You like that?"

David grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I really, really do." He laughed. "Is it true? No fooling?"

Jordan giggled again. "No, it's real. I really just did that."

"How was it?"

"It was good…not as good as when you're here, though."

"You flatter me, baby." David grinned again.

"No I don't!" Jordan insisted. "I love it when we're together. You know…physically. You've got a magic tongue, mister…" she whispered into the phone.

"I'm glad you think so…"

The young couple talked about their days, both relishing in the endorphin braised afterglow of shared intimacy at a distance. After an hour or so, they both decided to return to the lengthy checklists of evening work required by their respective jobs. David relished the silky brightness of Jordan's voice as she signed off. It seemed to have a faint, but clear aura. A glow.

"I love you, baby. I miss you. Sleep tight…"

"I love you, Jordan."

The call ended, bringing up the home screen on David's phone. A photo of the two of them together, taken by a friendly stranger from the top of a mountain at the midpoint of a long hike. He wore the practiced, awkward smile of a man who hated posing for photos.

She, however, wore a bright, wide smile of genuine joy and deep love.

Sparkling eyes–deep and gunbarrel blue, high cheeks, and a full row of teeth straight, pearly white teeth hanging half open in a laugh. A look he loved to see on her.

A look she consistently gave him when he went out of his way to do something nice for her.

Or when he came home after a three week stint.

Or when she looked down at him with weary relief as he lifted his similarly weary mouth from between her open legs.

He hoped she had that smile on her face after she pleasured herself this evening. He liked imagining that.

He hoped she looked mistily up at the ceiling as the tension left her body.

He hoped she wore that smile now.

* * *

Molly stood anxiously with arms folded–outside the large, impersonal division headquarters building. She wasn't alone. She faced into a small circle composed of her boyfriend's friends–Jared and Megan–who she knew, but didn't know well.

Mark had been marched out of the room following the guilty verdict and a hasty sentence following the verdict, using language she didn't understand. She was still stunned, leaning in as she tried to follow Jared's explanation of what was going to happen to her boyfriend.

"Reduction in rank, forfeiture of pay and restriction," Jared explained. "So he's not a sergeant anymore, and they're going to dock his pay for two months, then…"

Jared stiffened suddenly and snapped his right arm up in salute as the little group was approached by Lieutenant Macintosh.

Macintosh walked stiffly. Awkwardly. Clearly uncomfortable by the situation. He lazily returned Jared's salute. The two women turned toward him, unsure of what to say.

He broke the silence.

"Hey, uh, guys. I just…I wanted to say I'm, uh…"

His eyes moved around the group. Jared's eyes held a professional veneer partially concealing his disgust, but he stayed quiet, politely waiting for the superior officer to finish speaking. Much as he desired to defend his friend by attacking the lieutenant, Jared had just witnessed the consequences of insubordination and assault. He wasn't about to test the boundaries with this particular lieutenant.

Looking over to the red haired woman to Jared's right, the lieutenant found Molly's green eyes to be bewildered and confused, unfamiliar with the workings of the criminal system she was now in the secondary grip of, and consequently uncertain of her boyfriend's legal status and worse, his mental condition. The hurt in her eyes was a clear indictment of his fecklessness, and he fumbled with what to say.

Moving his eyes over to Jared's left side, he found Megan–a pair of brown eyes locked on his, fixed and focused with bubbling magma poorly concealed below the surface of her stare.

If looks could kill, Megan's evening would have been spent looking for a drum of acid in which to dissolve the feckless young officer's body.

Lieutenant Macintosh quickly looked away toward Jared and continued his halting explanation.

"I just…I didn't want things to go this way, I hope you, uh, understand that."

Jared cleared his throat and said nothing. Molly squinted and cocked her head, her confusion deepening. Megan continued her attempt to flay him alive with her gaze.

"Well…give Sergeant Rein my best, uh, I guess," the lieutenant concluded. "I'm being transferred. I thought you should know that. So, uh, I probably won't see you again." He extended his hand to Jared.

Jared looked down for a moment before grasping it with a perfunctory shake, then dropped it.

"Well…see you around." The lieutenant returned Jared's departing salute and deliberately avoided Megan's furious gaze as he turned to saunter away.

The little group watched in silence as he made his way to the parking lot before getting into a car and driving away.

"Is that normal?" Molly was the first to speak, gesturing vaguely toward the direction the lieutenant walked.

Jared shook his head in disgust. "No. He's an exceptional piece of shit. Always kissing ass, hoping someone will like him. I think he thought Mark would get acquitted, then he could say it was all a misunderstanding or something. Or maybe he had some other dipshit plan. Who knows. But no, he's not normal. That…guy is not normal."

Molly nodded, still confused. "So what's happening with Mark?"

Jared resumed his earlier explanation as Megan's jaw clenched, looking off into the distance.

"So he's not a sergeant anymore, he's gonna lose half his pay for two months, and then he's on restriction for a month."

"So he's going to jail?" Molly's eyes welled in fear.

"No, that's confinement. Restriction is more like house arrest. It happens all the time, actually. It's actually not that bad in terms of what they can do to you. It just means he can't leave his barracks room except to get food and some other stuff. So, yeah. It's not that bad. It could have been way worse. I mean, it sucks. But he can recover from this. I mean, he's not gonna be our platoon sergeant anymore, that's for sure, and he's gonna be bored as hell for the next month. But everyone in the battalion knows the court martial was bullshit, his reputation is still really good. He'll pick up sergeant again real fast. He'll be okay."

Molly nodded, unconvinced.

"It sucks, don't get me wrong, but it could have gone way, way worse."

Molly nodded as he explained. "Can he, uh…go to the doctor if he gets sick?"

Jared looked surprised. "Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?"

Molly looked over at Megan, who broke her death stare silence for a moment and cocked her head slightly at Molly, unsure of what the question meant.

Molly hesitated. She lowered her voice, looking grave as she explained.

"Mark's been having nightmares."

Jared's eyebrow cocked up. "Like…what kind of nightmares?"

Molly hesitated again, unsure of what she could say without causing more trouble. Finally she addressed Jared directly.

"Have you seen him act like he did in there before? Like…losing his temper really fast in a scary way? Breaking furniture?"

Jared shook his head. "I think he was just being protective of you, right? You know, because of…"

"He wasn't." Molly cut him off. "I mean, he was, but…"

Molly looked both ways to make sure no one was listening, then lowered her voice again.

"He almost definitely has PTSD."

Jared's eyebrows furrowed in suspicion, but he didn't answer.

"When we're together, sometimes he wakes up thinking he's still in Afghanistan," Molly explained. "He's having trouble regulating his emotions, especially when people remind him of certain things. When that lady kept bringing up that village mission, you know…it triggered him He didn't know where he was for a minute. I could see it in his eyes."

Megan nodded in recognition. "I thought something was up. I didn't know what it was, but I can totally see that now."

Jared's lips pursed.

"He needs treatment," Molly began to explain. "I know he's scared because…"

"It's a career killer." Jared cut her off. "He's not going to get help, it's a career killer. Especially now. A court martial then a trip straight to behavioral health? He'll never get to be a sergeant major after that. Hell, they might not even let him re-enlist."

Molly shook her head vigorously. "No. He needs help. And you say they're going to lock him in his room for a month? By himself? That's the worst thing you can do for him right now. If you isolate him, his symptoms will get worse. He'll spiral. Can we talk to someone? Maybe say something that can get him some help without really letting on about what's happening?"

Jared shook his head. "I don't know. Once the order is given, he's stuck in his room until the restriction period is over. I mean, they would let him out if he said he wanted to talk to a shrink, but there's no way in hell he'd admit to that. No way in hell."

Molly's eyes welled with a hint of tears for a moment before she composed herself.

"Well…can he maybe have visitors? I'm just worried if he's all alone, he'll spiral and get worse."

Jared shook his head. "No visitors except the chaplain. And Mark hates the chaplain. He thinks he's a schmuck."

Molly looked down, discouraged for a moment before looking up again. "How do they keep him in the room? Do they lock it or something?"

"No, they don't lock him in. They just put a guard in front of the door. But it's just a guy from the company. Just part of the duty watch. Not like a full-time prison guard or anything."

Megan looked up at her husband. "You're platoon sergeant now. Right? You can go in there."

Jared nodded. "Yeah, but I can't like, stay and hang out. Just to check on him and stuff."

"Better than nothing," Megan's voice betrayed disappointment.

The three stood in awkward silence, trying to untangle the knotty conundrum.

"Can you sneak me in?"

Jared squinted in surprise. "What?"

Molly was surprised at her own hasty suggestion.

"Just for tonight. He's triggered right now, I guarantee it. That's why he lost control in there. Now he's all alone and he thinks his career is over and that he let everyone down. He's going to spiral, and his nightmares are going to be really bad. If he even gets to sleep at all. Just get me in there tonight, and I'll spend a few hours with him, and he can stabilize a little bit."

Jared looked blankly at Molly, unsure of how to respond.

Megan intervened.

"Listen to her, honey. She knows what she's talking about…remember at the restaurant…"

Jared nodded. "No, I remember." He turned to Molly. "And I trust you, I just…how do you know that's what's happening?"

"Didn't you see how he was zoning out, and he started squeezing that armrest really hard? Even before he pulled it off. And his breathing picked up…and his pupils kept expanding and contracting when she was grilling him about the IEDs and stuff. And then he kept saying he didn't remember things, You know, after they got the new chair and everything."

"I thought he was just doing the 'I do not recall' thing to cover his ass."

Molly shook her head. "No. He actually has real memory gaps. I've seen it happen when I'm trying to calm him down. He'll forget what he just said, and you have to remind him."

Jared chewed his lip. "You're telling me he's gonna have some kind of mental health episode, and the solution is to defy a court martial and put a civilian woman in a locked room with the El Paso Hulk? Seems like a really bad idea, Molly. A really, really bad idea."

"It's not like that," Molly assured him. "He's not actually dangerous. Just like…really confused. Confused enough to be frustrated and lash out a little. But it's only gonna get that bad if he's stuck by himself in a blank room for a long time."

"He looked pretty dangerous when he ripped that chair apart…"

Molly shook her head. "That was an accident, and he immediately caught himself. And don't worry about me. He has nightmares alot. Almost every time we sleep together. I'm always, always able to settle him down. Trust me. I'll be okay."

Jared looked over at Megan, who nodded up at him. He chewed his lip again, then flipped open his cell phone, dialing. He lifted the phone to his ear.

"Arnie. It's Poisson. Who's the sergeant of the guard tonight over in barracks E?"

Molly's eyes finally began to well over, and she wiped a tear as it ran down her cheek. Megan caught her gesture and walked over to hug her reassuringly as Jared listened to the other side of the phone call.

"Okay," Jared said. "Well, spread the word. Sarge is on room restriction for a month. They're bringing him back now. He should get there in the next fifteen minutes, and they'll order a guard posted on his room. I'm taking over as acting platoon sergeant for a little while. Tell Smythe to make up a family emergency and have him reach out to me to cover for him tonight. And get yourself on for a walking post in barracks E. Switch shifts with someone. Do it now, before anyone gets there and notices the change."

Jared nodded over to Megan, who smiled helplessly at her husband as she held Molly, who was now crying into Megan's shoulder in frustration.

"No…" Jared continued, "Just swap with whoever's on. And keep it quiet. I'll be there in twenty minutes and I'll explain what's going on."

* * *

The kitchen table was messy–a familiar configuration of academic clutter strewn across the tabletop. This configuration happened mostly when David–and his quiet but firm preference for tidiness–was traveling during Jordan's dissertation work. Several books and printed journal articles lay about in loose stacks surrounding an open laptop computer. Having finished her lesson preparations for the classes she was set to teach tomorrow, she had one more task on her to-do list–one that she had been putting off until the end of the night.

A spiral notebook lay open in a cleared space next to the laptop with a fresh, clean page ready to receive notes and observations.

Although seated by herself in her apartment, Jordan felt strangely nervous. The laptop screen showed a video on full screen, paused. On the screen, a young woman sat comfortably in a chair in front of a dark gray backdrop, an easy smile on her face.

Jordan picked up her pen and pulled her notebook toward her.

Encounter is staged and pre-planned on a simple set with minimal furnishings. Subject is female, caucasian, early twenties, and appears healthy and relaxed. No visible signs of distress, constraint, or coercion. She is dressed in business casual attire and is wearing light makeup. Appears alert and oriented x4. No other persons are visible in the frame.

Reviewing her initial notes, Jordan checked the frozen frame once more before hitting play.

Initial interaction is an interview, with the subject centered and the interviewer off camera. Initial conversation is casual, orienting interviewer to subject's background. Subject self-identifies as college educated, raised middle class in a small community in central Michigan. Subject self-identifies as having religious upbringing, attending services weekly or biweekly. Subject indicates confusion re: sex and sexuality in childhood and adolescence, reveals first sexual encounter to be in college after leaving home. Subject admits to only two sexual relationships prior to interview, and has recently ended a three year relationship following an amicable breakup resulting from "different priorities" with partner. Subject admits heterosexual orientation while admitting curiosity re: homosexual encounter.

Jordan paused the video again, rewinding to review the tape thus far to make sure she didn't miss anything substantive. Satisfied that she had caught the essence of the scene thus far, she continued.

Subject admits to encountering the previous work of the interviewer on the internet, leading to curiosity re: BDSM. Subject indicates confiding to roommate re: curiosity, and was encouraged by roommate to contact studio. Subject resisted, but repeated positive exposure to interviewer's online content piqued her curiosity and led her to emailing interviewer, and ultimately to the present meeting. Subject emphasizes this is her first time on camera, and her first non-virtual exposure to BDSM practice of any kind. Subject self-identifies as nervous but excited.

Jordan rewound and watched one more time, adding an addendum before continuing.

Subject's relaxed affect manifests gradually in regress approaching acute tension as social cues indicate that the interview portion is nearing completion. Subject is still smiling, but pulling her lips back tightly, and appears to be clutching her skirt with one or both hands intermittently. Claim to be her "first time" is credible.

Jordan tapped her pen on the pad momentarily, not noticing a light sweat forming under her hairline. She resumed the video.

Subject is presented a written contract, which she reviews and signs. Follow on questions from interviewer gauge understanding of explicit sexual acts which she is expected to perform. Subject indicates understanding. Verbal consent is elicited and given for each intended sex act individually, and interviewer establishes a tiered system of "safe words" and accompanying gestures if and/or when subject is bound or gagged during the encounter. Emphasis is given to clear consent and communication with detailed specifics. Subject appears increasingly flushed and inclined to avoid eye contact as instructions become implicit. Interviewer asks the subject if she is ready to begin the encounter. Subject admits readiness.

Jordan reviewed her notes, leaning her cheek on her open fingertips, surprised to find her own cheeks hot. She took a moment to get a glass of cold water, drank half of it, and sat back down, unconsciously looking around her to make sure she was alone before picking up her pen again.

Subject stands in front of the chair and is given specific instructions re: posture. Subject is instructed to remove clothing in stages. Subject seems inclined to cover herself and is reprimanded. Subject stands still in plain undergarments as interviewer enters camera frame for the first time. Interviewer is male, early middle age, caucasian, medium build. Interviewer is fully clothed and seems preoccupied with subject's posture, arranging her arms behind her, elbows at right angles facing inward behind her back. Subject appears to shake slightly, a clear flush on her face, neck, and upper chest. Interviewer fondles subject's breasts and genitals over, then under remaining garments. Subject does not resist, and appears aroused. Subject is reprimanded when she makes noise and is instructed to stay silent.

Jordan checked her notes, then noted that the video, which was 50 minutes long, was only 15 minutes in. She ran her fingers through her hair, exhaling deeply as she felt the sweat of her brow with her fingertips.

Subject is instructed to remove underwear. Subject complies and is reprimanded for moving slowly. Subject appears self-conscious when nude, instinctively covering herself, and is reprimanded, then instructed to resume the earlier posture. Interviewer remains fully clothed and instructs subject on the need for her posture to conform to instructions. Interviewer states a particular way of displaying her breasts conforms to his preference. Informs subject that her display and compliance should prioritize his preference. Subject complies with instruction and is praised and fondled. Subject smiles and is reprimanded for smiling.

Jordan ran her hand through her hair again. Her forehead felt hot, almost like a fever.

Subject has a clean-shaven pubic region. Subject is questioned about shaving habits, and is fondled as she responds with her preferences and grooming routines. Interviewer instructs subject that her grooming will continue, but according to his preferences. Subject consents verbally. Arousal visibly intensifies as interviewer begins to fondle her more aggressively. Subject's nipples are aggressively manipulated, causing her to contort uncomfortably. No safe word is invoked.

Jordan shifted in her chair, trying to ignore the growing heat between her own legs.

Subject is instructed to withhold climax until allowed by interviewer. Interviewer leaves camera frame, then returns with what appears to be a soft rope made of teal-colored material. Subject continues to hold original pose as interviewer binds her forearms together behind her back. Interviewer continues arranging rope in pre-planned geometric patterns around her torso and around her thighs. Subject is instructed to kneel upright with her legs apart. Subject complies, but struggles with balance as her torso is tightly bound.

Jordan paused the video and reviewed her notes, looking at the screen. Her left hand slipped under the waistband of her pants, finding her own heat. She toyed briefly with that heat for a few seconds, then shifted in her chair again before resuming the video.

Interviewer leaves camera frame again, returning with a teal marital aid, matching the color of the rope. Subject is instructed to open her mouth as interviewer probes subject with the implement. Subject is asked questions with increasing aggression. Subject cannot articulate answers with her mouth filled. Subject appears increasingly flustered. Probing induces gagging and choking periodically. Subject is visibly uncomfortable but no safe word or safe gesture is invoked.

Jordan paused the video again and slipped her left hand under her underwear again, finding her heat combined with wetness. Briefly sliding her middle finger between her moistening lips, she felt the unmistakable glow of sexual pleasure. She grunted in frustration and then pulled her hand out, resuming the video.

Subject's face is messy from saliva and gag reflux. Subject appears fatigued and disoriented, but expresses desire to continue. Subject is informed that she is to be penetrated. Subject consents. Interviewer wipes marital aid clean, using subject's hair to clean the implement. Subject does not resist. Subject is penetrated vaginally.

Jordan sighed as she paused, this time dropping her pen and slipping her right hand down her pants, her left hand sliding up her shirt to pinch a nipple. Her mind returned to the one night she consciously submitted to Mark, when he probed her throat for the first time with his…

Jordan groaned in frustration and stood up, gripping her laptop in her right hand and picking up her cell phone with her left. Striding urgently down the hall to her bedroom, she activated her phone screen and opened the text message app to her last conversation with her husband.

J:

[MustBeDenied2]

Thanks, Crushing. My favorite days are when you post another installment!

MBD

[nnjcpl2002]

Well, Crushing, you have us on the edge of our seats. Excellent work
Now really eager for what comes next.
Thanks.

[Jacko]

Great stuff.

I have my fingers crossed that Jordan doesn't end up playing around with Patrick. Lukacz or Schenk get my vote

[Crushing]

"So who did he bite this time?"

Megan pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. Stopped at a red light, she was getting the news of the day from her husband, who had wrapped up an early training day and dismissed the company shortly after 3 in the afternoon following Captain Rein's orders.

"He bit one of the yard teachers during morning recess. I didn't get the whole story, but…he obviously did it. It's JJ. He bites people sometimes."

Megan could hear her husband shrug over the phone. She closed her eyes and counted backwards from 10 as Jared continued.

"Anyway, the school wants to meet with us tomorrow. I've got to lead a battalion training starting at 4, but I think I can slip away before that. Maybe right after lunch sometime. What's your schedule look like?"

Jared's voice was annoyed, but resigned to the crisis. JJ had been a biter since preschool, chomping down on anyone who threatened or overpowered him to the point of desperation. Jared, the consummate hand-to-hand fighter, had tried every tactic he could think of to discourage the behavior: shame, joking, grounding, even teaching him other tricks to get assailants away from him. Nothing worked. Difficult to restrain on his best day, JJ was a menace when he got worked up. Many a well-meaning teacher had attempted to calm JJ down only to get little bite marks on various parts of their anatomy.

They had never had this problem with Marky. Always an even-tempered kid, he seemed inclined to "talk it out" as soon as he could actually talk. Despite being big for his age, he was non-confrontational almost to a fault.

The light turned green and Megan eased into the intersection, speeding up to match the flow of traffic heading north from Wilmington.

"I can probably take an extra hour for lunch," she responded. "I don't have any court days for at least a month, I'm just getting spun up on my caseload. So I can do…I don't know…maybe one o' clock tomorrow? Can you get them to agree to that?"

"Yeah, I'll call them back and see if I can swing it. I need to make sure Mark doesn't need me then, though. I'll call him first."

"Don't bother," Megan replied, turning right off the main highway. "I'm about to talk to him. I'll just tell him we've got a meeting tomorrow. Another post-chomp debrief courtesy of JJ. He'll think it's hilarious."

"You're about to talk to him?" Jared sounded surprised.

"Yeah, I'm on my way to his place now. I need to stop by before I get home. But I won't be too long. I just need to talk to him about something."

Megan pulled into the driveway of Mark's house, where he was outside mowing the front lawn. Noticing Megan's car pulling in, he pointed toward the open spot in the garage, where Megan pulled in.

"Just talk?" There was a thick anticipation in the tone of Jared's voice.

"That's the plan," Megan teased. "Of course, if something else happens, I'm open to possibilities." The tone of her voice turned playful in response.

"God, you're so hot, Meg. You drive me nuts."

"That's why I do it…" Megan teased again.

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Honestly, honey, I just need to talk to him about something. It's not a big deal, I'll fill you in later."

"Oh." The playfulness quickly drained out of Jared's voice. "Everything okay?"

"No, everything's fine. I just have a case that may involve a marine corps officer, and I'm not sure of protocols for dealing with officers in this situation. I'm trying to figure out how to navigate the officer world without looking like either a bitch or an idiot. Since Mark knows the whole officer world thing, I'm going to pick his brain for a minute. That's all."

"You couldn't do that on the phone?" Jared asked.

"I could. But I can't fuck him over the phone. And I think every conversation with Mark should at least leave that avenue of possibility open."

Jared didn't answer, but she heard him clear his throat, flummoxed.

Within moments, Mark had finished cutting the last row of grass and was wheeling the mower back toward the garage where Megan sat in her car.

"So…are you gonna…" Jared asked awkwardly

Megan smirked. "Yes, baby. If he wants to have sex, we'll have sex. If we do, I'll bring you home a present, okay? I promise."

"Okay…" Jared's breathing got heavy again.

"Call the school back. See if they can meet at one. Then talk to JJ about using words instead of teeth, please."

Mark, having returned the mower to its place in the garage, now made his way toward the driver's side door of Megan's car.

"Alright, Meg," Jared said through the phone. "I'm on it. Have fun. Make it good for him."

"I always do, baby. I'll be home for dinner."

They hung up just as Mark opened her door. Megan stepped out of the car, looking up at Mark, dressed in ratty jeans, his powerful torso casually accented by his sweaty undershirt. His tight musculature showed hints of vascular protrusion following the heat, with a few stray veins standing out against his skin on the underside of his forearms leading up to his green-tinted hands. The faint smell of lawn clippings still hung delicately in the air.

"Good to see you Meg, but I won't touch your nice clothes. I'm gross at the moment. What brings you by?" He asked, smiling down at her.

Megan didn't answer for a moment, preferring just to look up at him. She then placed the flats of her hands on his chest and extended her body up to kiss him deeply. Her wedding ring sparkled in the late-afternoon light as the tips of her fingers curled around the inside of his shirt collar. After ensuring that enough affectionate moisture had transferred from her mouth to his, she pulled back slightly and smiled silently up at him.

Mark grinned. "I mean…If that's why you came by, I'll take it, but did you need to borrow sugar or something?"

Megan held her smile and shook her head.

"Actually, Mark…I've got…something we need to talk about. A bit of news from your past. Our past, really. You want to go inside and sit down for a minute?"

A look of concern flashed across Mark's eyes. "Of course. Come on in, you know you don't have to knock here. I'd like to take a quick shower, first, though. Maybe you can grab an iced tea from the fridge or something and I'll be out in a minute?"

"Can I join you? Achilles?" Megan asked innocently.

"Yeah, I'm totally in Achilles mode right now," Mark grinned sarcastically. "Achilles got grubby mowing lawns after a full day of filling out stupid paperwork. That's what made the Trojan War so epic."

They began walking from the garage toward Mark's front door. Megan gently took his green, calloused hand and interlaced her fingers with his. Mark looked back down at her, puzzled by her sudden desire for casual intimacy. Clearly she had something on her mind.

"Didn't Achilles say he wanted to be a farmer?" Megan asked. "Or like a slave that farmed? Something like that?"

"Oh, yeah…in the Odyssey, Odysseus meets Achilles in the land of the dead, and Achilles says he'd rather be a dirt-farming slave than a hero among the dead. Which is the exact opposite of what he says while he's alive in the Iliad. So I guess that means that if Achilles came back from the dead he would have started a second career in landscaping. I guess dying really changes your perspective, huh?"

He opened the door and motioned for her to enter.

Megan laughed. "Isn't that when he said it's better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?" she said as Mark stepped in behind her and closed the door.

"No, that wasn't Achilles at all. That was Milton's Satan. But I like where your head's at…" Mark grinned.

Megan grinned back.

"So. You didn't answer my question, Achilles."

"I'm sorry, what was your question, Briseis?"

"Can I join you for your shower?"

* * *

The soothing sound of a bubbling mountain stream rose out of David's phone and filled the dark room. He opened one eye, holding the other closed in an awkward squint, aware but unwilling to admit that it was time to get up.

He looked over toward the alarm clock on the hotel nightstand.

4:00 AM.

He was always an early riser, but combining his normal early-to-rise habits with rapid weekly travel, often involving large shifts in daylight hours across the world–it was rough. The strain had degraded his normal circadian hardiness.

He groaned and stretched his arms over his head, clicked on the small light on the nightstand, and then picked up and silenced his phone.

The home screen on his phone showed a handful of text messages that came through overnight.

8 messages in total. 1 From Arne…in Copenhagen. David opened the message immediately, wanting to be quickly responsive to his new boss.

Arne: Good morning. Please call me at your earliest convenience.

The text had arrived only moments before David woke–3:56AM. Arne would have sent that at… 7:56 AM local time…probably right when he got to the office.

David stood up and moved to the bathroom so he could splash cold water on his face. He needed to call Arne, but he still felt fuzzy. Stumbling through the bathroom door, he ran water, then splashed his face a half dozen times.

Nope.

Still feeling fuzzy, he soaked a washrag and draped it around his neck, feeling the cold drips run down the back of his T-shirt. He took a deep breath and picked up his phone, moving toward the work table in his room where his laptop was set up.

Arne probably had questions about some recent visits, and David needed his spreadsheets handy for reference. He sat down and booted up his laptop, then looked at his phone screen as the operating system began to load.

7 more text messages.

All from Jordan.

The laptop was still loading the operating system, and David opened the text chain, knowing that he couldn't contact his wife for another 4, or perhaps more like 5 or 6 hours.

Weird. Normally he woke up when she texted, but the days in Rio had been longer than usual. He must just have slept through them all…

David's mouth fell open as the screen populated with Jordan's messages.

Sent 10:42 PM
J:

Sent 10:58 PM
J:

Sent 11:11 PM
J: I love you baby. I miss you

Sent 12:04 AM
J:

Sent 12:21 AM
J:

Sent 1:12 AM
J:

Sent 1:44 AM
J:

David's palm slapped his forehead and his eyes bulged. He scrolled up in the message chain looking for earlier texts–any hints of what may have brought about this…interesting episode…or episodes.

His wife had clearly passed the night in flushed–perhaps frenzied–bout of sexual self-care.

No hints leading up to the first dancing girl in past texts. No texts after the final bouquet to explain.

His mind began to crunch the data, his imagination soaking up the possibility of his beautiful, intelligent, eminently self-controlled wife laying back on the bed with her legs wide, her knees tucked upward, and her fingers sensually roaming the downy auburn tuft surrounding her warmth.

According to the messages she sent, she began touching herself at 10:42, with her first climax at 10:58. So she was masturbating for 16 minutes. She likely would be primed beforehand…based on…what?

Something must have gotten her in the mood.

Interesting…

The next message was clearly eliciting a response from him.

I love you…I miss you…

An attempt to draw him into conversation…she was clearly still aroused and wanted connection. Generally she would get sleepy after experiencing a climax–that was his experience of her.

Clearly the wetness–the arousal–had continued, eventually spurring another episode beginning at 12:04, culminating in another climax at 12:21. A 17 minute session, almost identical in duration to the first…

David imagined Jordan's eyes rolling back as her hips gyrated urgently, her slender fingers disappearing into her body. Did she still have her top on, or was she fully naked by then? He took a moment to savor both possibilities…

He looked at the texts again.

The third time her beautiful, soft, feminine hands ventured south down her torso to address the call of her needs began after midnight.

1:12 AM–and the message contained a tripling of the flower symbol…did this mean an intensification of arousal? or perhaps multiple, previously undocumented impulses to touch herself in the interim? Had she just masturbated compulsively for four hours?

He took another moment to savor each possibility, his penis very rigid by now. David absently reached down to touch himself, staring hungrily at the little cartoon symbols on the phone.

Three flowers at 1:44. The third dalliance had a duration of 32 minutes, and again, either an intensification of orgasm or a thrice repetition of peak pleasure.

David's own pleasure rose sharply. He felt his breath slip into an excited arrhythmia at the tasty reality of his wife's willingness to report. His arousal heightened further at the thought of Jordan finding full physical release in his absence.

Three flowers for the first time. Did she have multiple orgasms? He had not known her to have those in the past…although she may well have done so with Mark. He didn't know either way, she was usually in a happy daze when she came home from Mark, and loathe to supply details at that level.

Perhaps, like the three dancing girls, the three flowers just meant an increase in intensity…and here he imagined her slender runner's frame–her heels firmly pressed together with her knees spread apart in a diamond shape–bucking involuntarily and lifting her smooth, tight buttocks off the mattress as the pleasure engulfed her.

He couldn't wait to ask her.

David's analytical mind couldn't be restrained. He ran the numbers again. Three sessions of active masturbation. 16 minutes, 17 minutes, and 32 minutes respectively. A total of…65 minutes.

He made a hasty comparison. When he and Jordan made love, she usually took between 15 and 20 minutes to climax from his mouth. On rare occasions, with very specific angles and fierce concentration, she seemed to be able to find orgasm from his penis, but only when he himself withheld climax, which was difficult. And that had to be within 10 minutes, he can't remember ever lasting longer than that. Although an average time to her climax from intercourse was difficult to happen–the occurrence was quite rare.

So here, Jordan was stimulated for 65 minutes in total: the first two sessions being shorter and the third longer, but also more intense, possibly with multiple instances of either involuntary hip bucking or, more likely, legs slamming shut and tucking her knees toward her chin in quasi fetal-ecstasy. At the conclusion of each climax, she would have withdrawn her beautiful, slender fingers slowly from her body, coated with honey…

David threw his head back and groaned, feeling the intensity of his own climax illuminating the tip of his penis. Choking silently for a moment while the dazzling dance of pleasure extended down his modest length and into his pelvis, he cried out without words as the pleasure began to radiate down the nervous pathways of his now stiffening legs. Again, as before, his eyes fell on the little yellow flowers on his phone screen: the symbol of his greatest sexual desire, which was his wife's confirmed, confessed, and documented sexual pleasure.

He began to catch his breath as his legs dropped down and his feet came to rest on the floor.

He took a moment to compose himself, then got up to clean the modest drops of semen that had pooled on his fingertips and make a cup of coffee before sitting down to quickly review the work of his first few months on the job.

Once he felt fully human again, He dialed Arne, then set the phone on speaker and placed it on the table next to his laptop keyboard so he could have his hands free to search his files if needed.

Arne's secretary made him wait on hold for a moment, then put him through.

"David!" Arne's voice was warm. A good sign.

"Good morning, Arne. I hope everything is well in Copenhagen."

"Everything is well in Copenhagen, yes. And how is Rio?"

"Beautiful. They've been very kind to me here."

David's mind had trouble leaving the thought of Jordan touching herself behind. Absently, he opened the text conversation, feeling a small flutter as he saw the little parade of dancing girls and yellow flowers.

"Excellent, David. I'm pleased to hear it. I'm just calling to…I believe your idiom is…to 'check-in' on how you are doing."

"Yes, well, I have the reports I've submitted here, as well as the data to back up my suggestions. I'm happy to answer…"

"Yes, yes, I have all that already…" Arne interrupted. "I'm actually more interested in how you are doing. Your job is a very busy one, and can be very exhausting. Do you feel exhausted?"

David wasn't sure how to respond. "I…I'm holding up fairly well, I think. I'm getting used to the travel, although the shifting time zones can be tough."

"I see. Are you enjoying the work itself?"

"Oh, that's great, Arne. I love the job. New challenges every week, new puzzles to figure out. I love it. So no complaints there."

"That's good to hear. And how is Mrs. Stark?"

"She's good…" David answered uncertainly.

"She is…doing okay with your traveling? Excess business travel…It can be a strain on a marriage, especially a young marriage. Is she managing without you there?"

David looked down at his phone again, seeing the three dancing girls, and the three yellow flowers. In his mind's eye, Jordan had now changed positions–upright on her knees, her beautiful petite breasts on full display with her shiny auburn hair falling forward over her clavicles. Her head rolled back as her mouth fell open and she lost control–her hips bucking backward and forward, her hand jammed between her legs.

David cleared his throat. "She…seems to be keeping herself busy. She's finishing up her doctoral degree. It's her dissertation year, so she has a lot to occupy her time and attention. But she's still very supportive of this career move, so I'm not too worried."

"I'm pleased to hear that, David. I ask because you are four months into your first year contract, and this is about the time that our new analysts begin to…what's your idiom? When they begin to…crack?"

"Oh, I don't feel that's the case, Arne. In fact, I feel like I'm just getting started. There's still so much to learn."

"That's excellent. And the pay is sufficient to your liking?"

"Oh yeah, the pay's wonderful. No complaints there." David was unsure where the conversation was headed.

Arne's tone shifted. "Well, David…I do have some just a couple questions about some of the suggestions you have given that we have implemented. From the Port of Los Angeles specifically. Which was, I believe, your first inspection?"

"Yeah, that was. Let me pull up the data from that real quick…"

"Well, you gave a number of recommendations, and many of them are promising. But in particular, one of your suggestions stood out as unusual: you suggested to switch the regular shifts of two specific employees–the morning and swing shift employees who operate the southern crane. Do you remember?"

"Oh yeah, Eddy and Tank. Yeah, Tank was on swing shift, and Eddy was on mornings. Eddy liked the morning shift, but Tank kept missing his kid's ball games because he was always working from three until eleven. Also, I noticed that it took Eddy about three cups of coffee and at least two hours to really start to move efficiently in the morning. So there was a ton of operational drag on that crane. I figured if you switched them, Eddy might be mad for losing his morning shift, but Tank would be way happier. And Eddy would be awake for his whole shift, even if he didn't like it. Seemed worth a shot to try it."

"Interesting. I ask because that is not usually the type of suggestion we get. Normally, analysts recommend route changes, equipment upgrades, changes to tracking software, things like that. Hyper specific personnel changes that are…well to be honest David, these are quite granular, lower management decisions…we're not used to getting those. You spent time talking to both of these gentlemen?"

David tried not to sound defensive. "I certainly don't mean to break the mold of the job, but I noticed that the south crane was operating at about 30% less efficiency than the middle and northern ones, so I looked into it. Everything about the crane itself–and the dock and ships it services–they're all the same as the other cranes. The only thing that was different was personnel. Eddy and Tank."

"Well, it turns out you were right. We switched their shifts, and, after a little grumbling from one of them (as you predicted), all three cranes are operating at almost identical rates of load and unload now. And between that and the downstream benefits of that change, the port is moving much, much more smoothly. Much more than we anticipated from your first visit, in any case. I'm sending you the most recent movement reports."

A notification sound indicated the email had arrived for David's review.

"That's great, Arne…" David grinned. "That's just what I like to hear. It feels good to be making a difference."

"Well, I should tell you that your success in Los Angeles has gotten the attention of the board of directors. You should know that no one in your position has achieved that level of improvement that fast. Especially with a change that cost the company nothing. So…I'm reaching out to you at the board's request. They want me to make sure you are happy, to make sure that you have everything you need, and that you'll continue your tour. They'll be happy to hear that you're feeling comfortable. But they've authorized a…cherry on the top. Is that the right way to say it?

David laughed. "Yeah, you've nailed it. What do you mean though?"

"They've authorized me to disperse your bonus early. Even though the third quarter isn't over for another two weeks, we've calculated your bonus based on the changes you've made thus far. I transferred it to your bank account this morning.

David's brow furrowed in surprise. He quickly opened his online banking app.

His eyes bulged again.

"I see the deposit there, Arne. That's incredibly generous…I wasn't expecting that."

"Well, then it seems you and I are getting in the habit of pleasantly surprising each other. Let's make it a habit, shall we?"

"Yes sir…" David shook his head, still struggling to wrap his head around the giant cash drop. Hastily, he moved it into a savings account–still unsure whether it was real.

"And David…"

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't presume to direct you on how to spend your earnings, but may I make a suggestion?"

"Of course. I'm all ears." David cocked his head, half smiling in anticipation.

"Take some of that bonus and purchase something nice for Mrs. Stark. You can let her know how well you're doing and make her feel taken care of at the same time. Two birds, one stone…I believe is the idiom?"

"That's it, yes. I'll certainly do that, Arne. Thank you so much for calling."

"Thank you, David. We're so happy to have you on the team. Please call me if you need anything."

David closed his banking app, once more finding himself face to face with…

J:

"Thank you Arne. I will certainly do that…"

* * *

A delicate, caramel brown index finger traced a weaving path through a thick spattering of semen–a rough map of the climax Megan had stirred from her longtime lover. The viscous leavings of his passion found broad purchase across and between her bare breasts, her darker brown nipples erect with the thrill of their coupling, still in the stage of heaving relief.

The pad of her finger gently gathered the proof of her success with her lover and gently daubed it on her left nipple, spreading it thinly to coat herself before gathering another small pool of Mark's sperm and coating her right nipple to match.

Mark lay exhausted on his back, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom as he caught his breath. The dazzling sensation of release brought about by Megan's physical charms still sparkled through the major veins of his body. With the slow return of focus to his eyes, he turned his head toward his best friend's wife and grinned, exhausted.

"Thanks for dropping by."

Megan playfully slapped his bare chest, giggling. She propped herself up on her elbow, looking up and down his long, muscular body. She rested her gaze on his face, which presently returned to stare distantly up at the ceiling. She noticed her playful slap had left a hint of semen from the pad of her index finger on his chest. Gently leaning over his torso to lick it up, she kissed the moist spot on his chest, then sucked the remaining moisture from her index finger and smiled silently at her lover. Then, looking down, she saw his softening cock laying back on his stomach, a bead of white liquid forming at the tip, ready to pool above his navel. She quietly leaned down and suckled the remaining seed from his body and swallowed it, then carefully licked the moist remains of her own passion from his shaft before laying back down next to him and staring up at the ceiling herself.

"No problem," she said sarcastically. "Any time."

Mark laughed out loud. "You keep dropping by, you're gonna make me not want to start dating again, Meg."

Meg smiled, not looking over. "You think that's gonna hurt my feelings?"

Mark chuckled. They both lay still for a moment, catching their breath.

"So," Mark broke the silence. "What did you want to talk to me about? Something about 'our past,' you said?"

Megan propped herself up on her side elbow again, unsure if or how to broach the conversation with her news.

Mark turned his head to look at her, suddenly struck by a contrast. Her warm, clean, symmetrical face, her smooth, dark hair with its careful sheen, the clear, intelligent, empathic gaze of her deep brown eyes–all stood out in stark contrast against the explosive rivulets of his semen running down her torso.

It seemed almost symbolic of her place in his life. Steady, beautiful, but consistently put upon with the insanity he brought with him everywhere he went.

Yet she always accepted him with open arms. She seemed so comfortable with the chaos of his love, but yet so unshakably committed to her marriage. She really was an incredible woman.

He knew what was coming. Why she had come to talk about "their past." At least he was fairly sure the news was.

This must be so hard for her…

Should he help her, or would she prefer to find her way to the words on her own?

She looked up at him, rubbing his upper arm gently. "How are you doing, Mark? Are you sleeping okay?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah, can't complain."

"How are your nightmares? Pretty much under control?"

Mark sighed. "They still get bad around the anniversaries and stuff. You know how it is. But honestly, lately, not that bad. Being busy helps me sleep better."

"You know you can call me if it's bad, right? I don't like the idea of you dealing with that stuff alone. Especially now that we're nearby. And I know that Molly used to…"

Mark winced noticeably, turning his head away.

"I'm sorry, Mark…" Megan's hand moved from his upper arm to rest on his chest. "I didn't mean…I just know it's better if you have someone to sleep with. When it gets bad. I just…I want you to know that I'm thinking about you. That I'll help if you want me to. That's all."

Mark nodded silently, then turned his head to face her again. "I know. I don't know why that still bothers me. And it doesn't bother me that much, really. Just an old habit, I guess. But I appreciate the thought, Meg. I really do."

"You'll call me if you need me?" Megan's eyebrows raised.

Mark nodded. "Sure. Was that your news?"

"No." Megan cleared her throat, looking down for a moment. "I just wanted to check in before…"

Mark smiled encouragingly as she looked back up at him.

"Mark, at work today, I came across…"

"Marky's my son, isn't he?" Mark interrupted.

Megan froze, her mouth hanging open.

Mark's eyes softened, pleading for an answer.

"I, um…"

"It's okay, Meg. Just tell me."

She shook her head, looking down in disbelief before answering.

"I don't know, Mark. I honestly don't know. But it's possible."

Mark nodded gravely. "Do you want to know?"

Megan shrugged helplessly. "I don't know that either. I know Jared doesn't want to know though. At least not yet."

Mark nodded again. "OK. That's good enough for me."

"Good…" Megan sighed with relief. "Whoa. I was not expecting that. At least not right now."

"That wasn't your news? About our past?"

Megan shook her head, laughing nervously. "No, Mark. No it wasn't. But I think I'll sit on that news while we talk about this. My news is really not that big of a deal compared to this conversation. Now that it's hanging out there…"

Mark shrugged. "Okay."

Megan began tracing gentle doodles on his bare chest with her finger. "Do you want to talk about it more?"

Mark hesitated. "Yes. But I also don't want to overstep my bounds."

Megan stopped, a grave look now on her face. "Mark. One way or another, you're family. You might have fathered one of my children. You literally just blasted a load on my tits. What boundaries are you worried about?"

Mark stifled a laugh. "Good point."

Megan smiled as she laid down, resting her cheek on his chest.

Mark hesitated, then continued.

"If we were to talk about this, what would you want to talk about?"

Megan thought for a moment. "I'd want you to ask me everything you want to know. I don't like the idea of me having answers that you want and don't have."

Now it was Mark's turn to pause. "Can I ask anything?"

"Yep. Anything."

Mark took a deep breath.

"Okay, I have a few. I guess the first is just a follow up…if you don't know for sure, what do you think? Is he mine?"

Megan leaned up on her side and took his hand before looking deep into his eyes.

"Mark, he's Jared's son. Regardless of biology. Jared is Marky's dad, and always will be. That's how we feel about it."

Mark nodded. "I think that's awesome. And I totally respect that. There's no man in the world I admire more than your husband, Meg. He's the best man in the world. And the best dad in the world. That's how I feel about it."

"Oh good," Megan sighed, relieved. "You have no idea how long I've been carrying the crippling fear of your answer to that question."

Mark smiled, squeezing her hand. "I bet."

"But you probably still want to know what I think about the…um…biology part of that question…right?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah. If you're comfortable."

Megan looked down, avoiding eye contact.

"I think you got me pregnant. But I didn't know until after you left. I don't know for sure, but…I think you got me pregnant."

Mark lifted her chin with his finger, then pulled her close to kiss her.

She pulled back and looked in his eyes. "You're not mad?"

Mark took a deep breath. "Not even a little. I think we knew we were playing with fire back then. Things happen. And look what a great kid he is. And what great parents you are. If Jared can handle it, and it seems like he can, then it looks like everything worked out great."

Megan smiled broadly, kissing him again. "I mean, we didn't exactly hide it, naming him after you…"

Mark laughed. "Yeah, not particularly subtle."

"That's not why we did that, though. I mean, I didn't know for sure either way when I was pregnant, and when he was born we had our suspicions, but that's not why we named him after you."

"Why did you, then?" Mark's eyebrow popped up.

Megan shrugged. "You were such a big part of both of our lives, and then you were just…gone. After you left, Jared and I both…we didn't want to really lose you forever. So when Marky was born, way before either of us really, truly suspected…we named him after you."

"Still the biggest honor of my life," Mark smiled proudly. Megan smiled back, and he tickled her chin playfully.

"What else do you want to know? Come on, hit me again, mister questions. Sorry, Captain Questions…"

"Okay," Mark thought again for a moment. "Since it's still hypothetical, I guess I'll ask this. What would it mean for us if it were true? You and me? I'm not gonna break up your marriage or try to get custody, or whatever. But it does feel a little different now that we're talking about this. So what…what do we do now?"

She grimaced. "I don't really know. On the one hand, nothing. On the other hand, everything."

Mark shook his head, trying to understand.

Megan sighed. "I guess if it were true, we would know for sure that you and I will always share something. Something that I value more than anything else in the world. So on some level–even just pure biology–I guess we'd have a really, really deep bond. Well, a deeper bond than your run-of-the-mill sex friends, anyway."

Mark paused, then kissed her again. "I guess so. How do you feel about that?"

Megan's toes began to tingle with excitement as his kiss seemed tinted with a new affection. She giggled to herself, then began to doodle on his chest again. "As long as it doesn't get weird between us, I love that. I really do love you, Mark. And not just because you're good in bed."

She giggled again.

Mark smiled in spite of himself. "Okay. One more question."

"Shoot." Megan wiggled closer to him again, and gently kissed the scar on his jaw. She was clearly getting more comfortable with the situation.

"If it were true, what would you need from me? What can I do for you? And if it's appropriate, what's my role with Marky?"

Megan paused, uncertain of how to answer. "I don't know, Mark. I…I guess I've only kind of thought through what I need you not to do. Which isn't very helpful, and may have been the wrong way to think about it."

"What do you need me not to do?"

Megan grimaced. "A few things, I guess. The main one is to just, um…keep this between us…even as a hypothetical. Don't bring it up to Jared unless he brings it up first…He's just not ready. I know he knows. And I don't think he's mad or carries any negative feelings about it…I just don't think he's ready to face this possibility yet. Not fully."

Mark nodded. "What else?"

"Obviously, don't bring it up with Marky. Maybe when he grows up…I don't know. But definitely don't tell him."

"Yeah, that's a no brainer…"

"Good." Megan sighed again. "And then the obvious stuff–don't come charging in demanding custody or paternity tests or make a mess of things. But I don't need to tell you any of that. But yeah, since you asked, that's what I really don't need."

"For sure."

"As for what I do need? I'm not sure. "

Mark hummed in response, also unsure of how to respond.

"I'm not saying I'm not answering," Megan hastened. "I'm just saying I need some time to think about it. Oh, shit…speaking of time…what time is it?"

Mark checked his watch. "6:15."

"Shit. I gotta get going, dinner's going to be late."

Megan quickly kissed him and stood up to get out of bed, hunting around the room for her clothing. She found it in a neat pile near the bathroom door, and began to dress hastily.

Mark sat up, a little bewildered at her hasty desire to exit. "We could go back together. I could order you guys a pizza or something…"

Megan looked over as she bent down to pull her pants on. "I don't think so, Mark. I'm glad we talked about this, but now I need a little time to think by myself. I didn't plan on having this conversation today. I'm a little gobsmacked."

"You want to clean up first?" Mark asked, standing up and pulling on some basketball shorts, pointing at her semen splattered breasts, still apparent after the bra was on.

"No time. It'll be fine, I'll just button up my blouse."

Mark shrugged. "OK. Fair enough."

He left the room and walked down the hall into another bedroom for a moment while Megan was zipping and buttoning her clothes. As she sat on the edge of his bed slipping her work pumps on her feet, Mark entered again, a small, ratty paperback book in his hand.

"What's that?" Megan asked.

"Something I want Marky to have. I first read this when I was about his age. I really liked it then. Thought he might too."

Mark extended his arm, offering the book to her. Megan hesitated before taking it.

"Redwall," she read, smiling. "Don't think I've heard of this one."

"Yeah, part of a series. They sold them at grocery stores for a while when I was a kid, and my neighbor Benny got this one for me. So it's…kinda special."

Megan smiled deeply, looking over at the back cover. "Benny bought this for you? Wow. That's a real treasure. That's so sweet, Mark…"

Mark shrugged. "No problem. I just thought…he might like it. That's just the first one, though. If he likes it, I can get him some of the other ones. I ate 'em up when I was around his age. The librarian had the next one waiting for me every time I came in for a while."

Mark laughed at the memory. "If he doesn't like it, fine. But I thought…you know, since I don't have a son of my own, and he seems to be a reader, I thought maybe he'd like it." He shrugged.

Megan stopped, looking carefully over the well-loved volume, unsure of how to respond.

"I'm sure he'll give it a try. Should I tell him it's from you?"

"That's up to you."

Megan smiled knowingly. "Okay." She stood up and kissed again him before walking out toward the front door. Mark followed. She picked up her keys and purse from a small decorative bucket sitting on his kitchen counter, tucked the paperback book carefully into her purse, then headed to the door.

He didn't say anything.

As she reached for the doorknob she hesitated, then turned thoughtfully to face him.

"Ummm…I do have one more thing?"

"One more thing what?" Mark asked.

"One thing I would like you to do. Just, you know, in contrast to the list of things I want you not to do."

"Sure. Anything. What?"

"Well, you know how sometimes when we're together I make little references to having a baby with you? To get you going?"

Mark nodded, grinning. "Yeah, it's crazy hot."

Megan nodded back, then looked down, suddenly bashful. "Not every time, but…I think I'd like it, sometimes, if…when we're together…I'd like it if you'd make love to me like I'm the woman who carried a child for you. Because…I think I did. And I'd like to know what it feels like with you when you know that. If it's beyond a hypothetical."

She stepped forward and turned her head to kiss him one more time.

"I want you to make love to me like you know that, in a little three bedroom house about ten miles away, there's a tall, skinny, ten-year old boy reading fantasy books in his room, and he's only there because you and I made love eleven years ago. Before you disappeared."

Mark gulped. "I'm not sure I know how to do that."

Megan smiled to herself, then looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. "I'm not sure either. But I want to try. At least once. Could you do that for me?"

* * *

Mrs. Jordan Stark-Simms had become a regular feature in the Sunday worship service programs. Usually featured somewhere in the middle of the service, her vocal solos were a bimonthly feature by now. Weekly sessions with Mrs. Dolly every Wednesday evening had paid off.

Jordan's confidence had grown noticeably.

Not to mention her tonal range, her stylistic grasp, and her vocal warmth in general. What started as a fun chance to enhance her skills in a homegrown hobby now had parishioners bringing friends to church just to hear her sing. Much to the delight of the pastor and governing board of the church. Who didn't like to see the pews filling out a bit more–and the collection plates filling up a bit more too?

And of course Mrs. Stark-Simms, though modest about her own performances, was thrilled to help. Helping out at church was in her bones–it was a family business, after all. So she embraced an informal role in helping to build and grow the little community, as well as contributing to the success and stability of the church financially. There were even whispers of having her do a private recital for charity. She and Mrs. Dolly had been selecting and practicing songs with that in mind, although nothing had been officially decided or announced.

And Mrs. Dolly, the pastoral staff, and governing board were not the only beneficiaries of Jordan's selfless efforts. She had taken up a quasi-permanent role in the girls' youth group, tempering the frumpy and judgmental ministry of Mrs. Deleuze with a younger, more relatable, and happier air of fellowship. Some of the girls had even begun to copy her style in how they dressed for church…wearing soft pastel dresses and crimping their hair the way she often did on Sunday mornings. They had earned the affectionate nickname of "Jordanettes," showing a clear preference and affection for her upbeat, intelligent approach to life. The influence was clearly having an impact, much to the dismay of Mrs. Deleuze, but much to the delight of the girls' parents, who loved having a happy, intelligent, and hardworking young role model in their daughters' lives.

So this Sunday morning, as a prelude to the main sermon, Jordan stood in front of the choir in a knee-length beige skirt with a cream white belt, a navy blue sweater, and softly crimped auburn hair. Her posture was firm, straight, but relaxed as she sung the rich, warm opening bars of Schubert's Ave Maria into the open air of the chapel.

All eyes were on her. The opening bars having passed, her eyes moved brightly around the congregation as her body swayed with each breath. As her eyes moved around the space, she looked down to many warm smiles, and even a few amorous stares from some of the men looking up at her.

Noticeably absent in the congregation was her loving husband. His new job had him constantly traveling, and even on his weeks off he was lucky to make it to a Sunday service–often needing to leave to catch a plane while she crimped her hair or ironed her dress for church. A tinge of sadness flashed momentarily across Jordan's mind as she closed the song, wishing that she could hold her husband's gaze and sing to him–at least for the last bar or two.

Her eyes fell for a brief instant before her voice faded. The organ accompanying her faded shortly after, and the congregation burst into warm applause. She smiled graciously before stepping back and taking her seat with the choir as the pastor made his way to the pulpit.

Jordan resisted the urge to glance at her phone as the sermon began. She couldn't appear rude or distracted after singing a solo. Mrs. Dolly had made it abundantly clear that the parishioners would continue to look at her after she sat down: "Something about a pretty songbird…" Mrs. Dolly had said, wagging her finger playfully before the service started. "They look because she sings so well, but then they can't look away!"

Jordan tried to keep her eyes fixed on the pastor, but was definitely aware of a proliferation of eyes on her. Dozens–perhaps hundreds of unknown eyes directed at her–it would have horrified her when she was younger. But she surprised herself by how comfortable she felt it now. Perhaps several successful solos in front of the same congregation gave her confidence. Or perhaps now that she was fully grown, married, and close to established as an adult, she simply felt like she had a place in the congregation. But it was clear she was less bothered by the attention than she used to be.

But the desire to check her phone nagged at her. She did miss David. As much as she felt herself to be a part of the congregation due to her increasing visibility as a solo singer and mentor of the girls' group, she didn't like going to church alone. And while she always missed David when he was traveling, the pain of separation seemed more acute when she went to church by herself.

The pastor droned on. Something about manna from heaven…

Jordan's mind drifted to her husband again.

Something had happened recently that had him on her mind more than usual. She had been delighted by his amorous enthusiasm earlier this week when he had woken up to a series of text messages she sent during an evening of self-exploration. The next day David had texted and called repeatedly whenever he could steal away a few moments from work. He had showered her with enough affection to make her blush over the phone, and that afternoon had found another (albeit smaller) delivery of fresh-cut flowers to her office.

That level of excitement from her husband made her miss him. When her husband showed that level of eagerness for her, it seemed to create a shortcut to the deeply fulfilling emotional intimacy she craved–an intimacy she felt most strongly with her husband's touch.

When David wasn't traveling, the exchange of marital intimacy flowed naturally simply because they lived together and were near each other. David's excitement led to him reaching for her hand to hold. It led to spontaneous embraces, sweet kisses or, if they were in bed, an exchange of coos and cuddles that caused the tensions of her day to glide away.

Sometimes these little exchanges involved sex, but it wasn't sexual gratification that led to the intimate connection she wanted.. In fact, David's sexual arousal didn't often correlate directly with Jordan's sexual satisfaction. Having been married for a couple years, she was surprised to find that to be the case. His excitement usually led to her gratifying him quickly–he never lasted long when she touched him. Her climax may follow if David spent time focusing between her legs with his fingers or mouth, but she was surprised to find she didn't often crave that. It was the intimacy that followed after sex that enchanted her.

So now, based on their new arrangement, when she symbolically alerted him to her moments of arousal and self-care, he would respond with the intense delight and excitement that led to the emotional intimacy she craved.

Just without the physical touch.

As far as sexual gratification was concerned, Jordan was getting better at finding her own way to satisfaction than he was. She admitted this with some chagrin. But she had also been surprised at how excited she would get lying in bed waiting for him to text something saucy or affectionate to her.

The pastor droned on. Forty years in the wilderness…promised land…

The catalyst to this spontaneous burst of affection at a distance had been…a research mishap. A careful attempt to document and analyze a psychological phenomenon via a video found on the internet had drawn Jordan into a rather deep hole of arousal that she had some trouble climbing out of. She wasn't prepared for that, but her arrangement with David led her to sending her warm feelings of arousal and release to him throughout the night. And the response from David had led to a week of nearly constant communication and affection. It was intoxicating– almost felt like they were first dating again.

So she knew that in her phone, now tucked neatly into her purse under her choir seat, David was likely trying to text her. He wouldn't be home for another week. But, due to the constant texting, neither Jordan nor David could wait to hold the other in intimate embrace.

Jordan glanced around the congregation briefly before returning her gaze to the pastor's sermon, noting that most of the eyes that had been fixed on her had now either turned upward to the sermon or fallen down to the phones in their laps. A few–three or four–sets of eyes still kept drifting subtly toward her seat in the choir.

A small blush spread over her cheeks.

She would call David as soon as she got home. He would drop everything to ask her how her solo went. She couldn't wait to tell him.

* * *

"Hey baby. I'm home."

Jared turned around to see Megan walking tentatively into the kitchen.

"Hey…"

Jared stood in front of a skillet, stirring hamburger meat for sloppy joes. Megan walked behind him, clasping her hands in front of his stomach and hugging him from behind. He turned his head to kiss her hello, then stood still as she quietly rested her head on his shoulder.

"Everything okay?" Jared kept stirring.

He felt her nod, but she didn't say anything.

"You sure?" A hint of skepticism crept into his voice.

"Yeah, everything's fine. Just thinking through some stuff."

"What stuff?" Jared reached over to begin adding sugar and spices to the meat, combining them into a sloppy but sweet-smelling mixture.

"Just thinking about how good of a dad you are. And how lucky I am. With just…everything."

Jared smiled, relieved. "You sound relaxed. Sounds like you got taken care of…"

Megan snorted. "It's not that, perv. Well, I guess it's true, but it's not only that. I'm just…really happily married, I guess."

"Me too." Jared turned to kiss her again. "You know I want you to have a good time, babe."

"I always do…" she sighed. "Where are the boys?"

"Marky's buried in a book in his room. JJ's in time out."

"Where?"

"In his room."

"Did you set the meeting for tomorrow?"

"Yeah. 1 'o clock was fine. We're doing it then."

"Okay, good. I'll just take a late lunch…" Megan kissed him on the cheek. He set down the wooden spoon and turned down the heat of the burner. He turned around to face her, leaning against the counter, and she moved to clasp her hands behind his neck and lean on him again.

"You figure out what to do with your case?"

Megan laughed. "We never got around to talking about that…"

Jared chuckled back. "Well, sounds like you had a really good time. What's the case? You said it involves an investigation of a marine officer? At LeJeune?"

"Yep…" Megan said, leaning back. "And there's…something about it that I thought you'd like to know."

Jared cocked his eyebrow. "What…really? Anyone I know?"

Megan's eyes sparkled. "Macintosh."

Jared's eyes bulged. "No shit…no shit? No shit!!!" He covered his mouth hastily with his hand, then whispered urgently,

"No shit???"

Megan smiled gleefully. "No shit."

"What…who…why…?"

"It was a referral from the inspector general's office. I guess he's an executive officer in one of the supply battalions or something, and they've had some inventory discrepancies. I'm not sure about everything yet, but it looks like his dad's involved too. You know, the big-wig dickbag that…"

"That created all that trouble for Mark. No shit…"

"Yeah. Pretty amazing coincidence. No one wanted the case since it involves a sitting US congressman, but I grabbed it. Can't let on that I know the guy, of course. And I really doubt he'll remember me. So we'll see where it goes."

"Did you tell Mark?" Jared's eyes remained wide, still stunned.

"No, funny enough. We didn't get around to it."

Jared smirked. "Sounds like you had a good time."

Megan nodded, smiling. "Yeah. You could say that."

"So is it a good case? You think you can…"

"I'm pretty sure I can charge him," Megan said confidently. "He's a real dipshit. Didn't even bother to cover his tracks. I don't think he knows how to get away with stuff like this, honestly. But I don't want to move until I'm totally sure. And congressman daddy is much better at covering his ass, so that case is going to take time to build. I'm not doing anything until I've got them both. Plus, I have to convince my boss, and that's going to be a tough sell. Because…congressman. You know…"

"No shit…" Jared snorted.

"You're really articulate tonight, baby…" Megan grinned.

Jared laughed again. "I'm just…wow. What a coincidence!"

"Yeah, the case was on its way to the "pass" pile, actually. Glad I caught it when I did."

"If you get it past the boss, do you think you can win?"

"No."

Jared's face fell. "Oh. Well…"

"I don't 'win' cases like this, baby. I'm gonna destroy that motherfucker. I'm gonna shred every goddamn page of his service record and make sure he spends at least a decade turning big rocks into small rocks in a federal prison. Then I'm gonna hogtie and skullfuck his congressman daddy in front of every goddamn TV camera I can find. I am going to fucking END this entire family…"

Jared's eyes widened again, an excited smile spreading across his face. Megan's eyes had taken on an intensity he rarely saw…and definitely never wanted directed at him. The set jaw, the flared nostrils, the clear, threatening pulse of red-hot magma just beneath her light brown irises…

"God, you're hot…" Jared chuckled.

Megan broke from her rage trance and laughed nervously. "Sorry. Just got excited. But yes, I think I can win. As long as I can get the case by the boss. So it's got to be absolutely airtight. And it's going to take some time."

Jared lightly pinched her chin in his hand, and leaned down to kiss her again. "If anyone can publicly skullfuck a congressman, it's you, babe."

Megan blushed. "Aww…baby…"

Jared turned around to stir the food again. Just a few more minutes left. He added a dash of salts…

"Jared…" Megan's voice floated up from behind him, calm and even.

"Yeah?" He turned around to see his wife with her blouse unbuttoned and held wide open, revealing the soft, creamy brown skin of her C-cup breasts with strong rivulets of thick dried semen striated across them.

He froze in place.

"I brought you a present."

Jared was like a moth to the flame, reaching forward to pull her bra down and expose her more fully. The light crusting of Mark's passion for his wife had partially coated her hardening brown nipples. He leaned down and suckled on her right breast, gently kissing around the breast before suckling again…

They heard a noise on the stairs. Megan quickly pulled back and turned away, hastily buttoning her blouse as Jared returned to stir the food. She had just finished covering herself when Marky appeared around the far side of the refrigerator.

"Hey mom…when's dinner?"

* * *

If it was a crime, it would have been tough to tell from the footage.

The flat, low resolution picture that came from the off-the-shelf surveillance camera provided only a blurry picture as she stepped out of her car. She was dressed in a knee-length beige skirt with a cream white belt and a navy blue sweater. Large, dark aviator sunglasses covered her pale face framed by crimped auburn hair.

The parking lot camera saw the young woman look left, right, and behind her, still clutching the open door of her car in hesitation. Seeming to be satisfied that the empty parking lot meant she was alone, she made her way at an awkwardly hurried pace across the lot and out of the view of the camera.

When she reached the blackened glass double doors, Jordan threw one more look over her shoulder as she pulled the door open and slipped inside. Again, she confronted the scantily clad mannequins. Although the specific lingerie being modeled had changed since she'd seen them last. She held her breath as she rounded the corner of the entryway and saw stocked shelves.

It was somehow more unsettling the second time. The bewilderment of her first visit took some of the edge off of the sheer volume of nude female bodies that flooded the shelves. Raunchy titles, many with terrible puns and overwrought graphic design competed for the customer's attention–the inevitably lonely male gaze. All of it seemed geared toward the lowest common denominator of male lechery. The women seemed devoid of personality or identity. Just dead eyes holding the gaze of the camera, with fake balloon breasts jutting out awkwardly and with fake facial expressions of an obviously contrived sexual hunger. Who could be aroused by this?

The sight almost pushed Jordan back out of the store. She shook her head and walked on, avoiding the hundreds of dead eyed stares calling out to her from row after row of DVD covers. Walking past these stacks and rows of empty souls resembled some kind of scene from Greek mythology–a young heroine braving the land of the dead–a harem of virtual women offering overwrought, sad, lonely pity sex, straight to your DVD player. Sixty minutes of dead-souled raunch at an absurd markup.

It was a real run of the gauntlet. When she had visited the store with David, her main objective was to keep his eyes off of the display. Now, like a train wreck, she couldn't look away.

She moved past the worst of it, making her way toward the back as quickly as she could while the individual DVD covers began to blur past.

She couldn't help contrasting the selection of content in the store with the scene that haunted her not more than an hour ago in her choir seat. Her memory had taken her away from her longing for David. Still looking toward the pastor's sermon, her light blush had deepened and spread as she remembered.

She didn't seek it out. The memory came to her. It was intrusive. As if the devil himself had accessed the memory of the naked young woman tied up in a teal rope.

She remembered not only the sight, but the feeling she had when she watched it. What had begun for Jordan as an academic exercise had led to a night of surprising pleasure, and with follow-on delights in the form of David's prolonged excitement.

But the tail end of that delight had another tail–the involuntary recurrence of the bondage scene in Jordan's head, and the subsequent, intrusive return of her arousal. Often occurring during the most inconvenient or inappropriate of times.

Like during the last half of the pastor's sermon. And again right before the closing hymn, causing her to miss the cue and to stand two seconds later than the rest of the choir.

It was a particular point in the scene–one that had come well after Jordan had dropped her pad and pen and relocated the laptop to her bed that night.

Having settled on the bed and removed her pants, Jordan had been enjoying the delicious tease of her fingertip on the stiff apex of her womanhood when the young woman on the screen, who had been complying with instructions to pleasure herself with the teal phallus after it had been inserted into her, had finally been given permission to experience a climax.

The young woman had complied with the instruction with a stammering shriek, coupled with several awkward and involuntary contortions of her body. And the awkwardness seemed to be a feature of the sexual exchange–with her arms tied securely behind her back, the only way to comply with the directive to pleasure herself to a full climax was by employing awkward, jerky movements with bucking hips and bouncing on her knees. The awkwardness increased in intensity to the point of desperate absurdity as the young woman had found the release of orgasm.

The orgasm had made Jordan herself feel the deep wellings of climax rising from between her legs. She had just whimpered out her own initial release when the young woman on the screen, exhausted and with a hanging expression on her face, was ordered to kneel upright. The man–the interviewer in the scene–had carefully removed the toy from her vagina and then fastened it to some kind of fixture that sat nearly at the woman's eye level, but several feet away. The young woman had watched him carefully, still breathing heavily with drooping shoulders as he worked.

When the man had fixed the phallic implement in place, he attached a small hook and line to the rope holding the young woman's arms behind her back and fastened the other end to a metal ring on the wall. Once finished, he ordered her to make her way to the phallus and suck it. She had wearily complied, shuffling awkwardly on her knees, her proud and perky breasts clearly visible between the decorative runs of rope wrapped tightly around her torso. Shortly before arriving at the teal object, the hook and line slack had snapped tight, and she was prevented from reaching the phallus.

The man had begun to insist on her obedience as she struggled to comply. No physical prodding or violence–just a low, calm, repeated demand for obedience. The woman had desperately strained, her torso pitched forward, her neck extended, her mouth wide and her tongue hanging out. The tip of the phallus reached but did not break the plane of her open lips. Obedience was kept from her at a tantalizing tease of almost no distance. Several minutes of intense effort followed, and, as the young woman's tongue had desperately grazed the head of the phallus, Jordan had found her second, more intense release. The copious flow of her arousal had coated her fingers as she, entranced, had continued masturbating furiously, plunging two of her fingers in and out of herself.

It was at that point that the man playfully suggested he move the device closer. The young woman had nodded eagerly and silently, and the faux penis was moved several inches closer. She had eagerly–no, ecstatically–fellated the thick teal cock, humming as she relished the newfound ability to obey, moaning in rapture as she slurped. The combination of those sights and sounds had caught the tail of Jordan's second orgasm and thrown her hard into a third. The wave crashed over her, her legs slamming shut and her eyes squeezing closed, her teeth gritted and bared, a low grunt coming from the deepest part of her body. The dazzling sensation had sent shockwaves around her torso and shimmering down her legs.

Jordan groaned deeply as the sensation subsided. She opened her heavy eyelids to see the young woman grinning ear to ear as the interviewer carefully untied her naked body. Jordan's breathy panting gradually slowed to normal breathing and her lips closed just as the young woman, seemingly quite relaxed and unconcerned by her naked body exposed on camera, chatted happily with the interviewer. Her posture and demeanor clearly showed a state of emotional and physical relief.

Jordan shook off the memory, finding herself standing in the adult store again, with the reason for her trip to the store in her hands. She was startled to realize she did not remember finding the thing on the shelf or picking it off the rack to examine it.

RICARDO.

An impressive likeness, to be sure. A long, thick, copper-toned cock with a believable arc of the shaft to accent its rigidity. Circumcised, with a head proportional to the ample proportions of the shaft. A suction cup attached to the base of the fake scrotum–a feature she could have done without.

Jordan turned the package over, reading the product description on the back before suddenly realizing she was in a public place holding a large fake cock. Mortified, she looked hastily around again, relieved to confirm the store was still empty of customers. The woman working at the checkout counter was not visible behind the DVD racks.

In order to take it home, she would have to hand the toy–RICARDO–to that woman. She would have to get money out of her purse, and exchange the money for..this…thing. A receipt would be offered. Eye contact made.

She couldn't do it.

She moved to put the toy back and leave before she stopped herself, suddenly returning to the memory of the bondage scene–the young woman straining toward the teal cock, her mouth hanging open in desperation.

Jordan stopped, looking down again at the toy in her hands.

Hazily, her memory shifted to another memory. A point of view she had occupied during her last liaison with Mark–the one shortly before David was hurt. Mark had surprised her with dismissal, and she had left his home shockingly aroused but confused. Then, armed with some hastily gleaned advice from the Reddit bondage community, she had returned, kneeled and offered herself to her lover. After removing her clothing for Mark, and after initially exploring her body with his large, copper hands, she had been surprised at her arousal when the thick tip of his copper-tone cock had found her gag reflex. Instead of stopping, Mark had waited for her to compose herself, but then continued to press his large cock back into her mouth and into her throat.

The gagging had continued for a few minutes, making a mess on the floor between her knees. Jordan had not objected, despite the discomfort, and indulged the behavior for as long as he wanted before he had dragged her to his bed and fucked her.

She looked at the toy again.

It wasn't exactly like Mark's. But it was close.

She turned to walk purposefully toward the checkout counter, her church shoes clicking conspicuously on the tile in the otherwise silent store.

* * *

The Poisson household was unusually quiet for 8:30 on a weeknight.

JJ, having been sent back to his room to serve out the remainder of his banishment following his unprovoked gnaw on the yard teacher's left hand, had become sullen and fallen asleep early.

Jared was in the basement with a beer, watching a baseball game on TV.

Megan was set up at the family dinner table, spread out with a pile of ledgers, reports, and other evidence she had brought home from work.

The only noise apparent in the house were the wet squeaks of her highlighter on the page in front of Megan and the running commentary of the sportscaster drifting faintly up the basement stairs.

Two lanky, uncertain feet thumped their way down the carpeted stairs toward the main floor. Megan's oldest son Marky appeared, walking past the table toward the kitchen. Disappearing into the kitchen, he presently returned with a glass of milk and a fistful of beef jerky poorly concealed in the hem of his shirt, moving quickly past his mother and back toward the stairs.

"Hey, bud…"

Marky turned around, caught.

"Where are you going with all that?"

The boy answered evasively. "To my room."

"Is that peppered or teriyaki jerky?"

"Teriyaki. I'll put it back, I know it's late…" Marky dropped his head and turned back toward the kitchen.

"Put all but two pieces back, then come back here and give me one."

"Okay…" the voice drifted out of the kitchen. A moment later he came back and set a piece of jerky on top of her paper.

Megan leaned back in her chair and picked up the jerky.

"Sit down for a minute, bud. I've got something for ya." Megan took a little bite off the jerky as Marky pulled out a chair and sat down nervously.

Megan hesitated, still a little raw from her earlier conversation.

"What do you know about your Uncle Mark?"

The boy shrugged. "He's cool. I know he's Dad's boss, and I know they went to boot camp together and stuff. And he's nice. He comes to our games and stuff. And he takes us to get pizza sometimes."

Megan nodded. "He's…a really close friend to both your dad and me."

"Okay."

Megan took a deep breath. "Did you know he saved Dad's life once?"

The boy cocked his eyebrow, biting off a big chunk of jerky and chewing ostentatiously. "Really?"

Megan nodded. "Yep. In the war."

"What happened?"

Megan took another deep breath. "Well, they were on a patrol together, and they got attacked. Dad fell and hit his head and passed out. The bad guys were coming, so Uncle Mark picked Dad up and dragged him away, and fought off the bad guys when they tried to take Dad. He actually got a special medal for it. You know that bronze star that Dad has on his fancy dress uniform?"

Marky nodded. "Yeah."

"Uncle Mark has one too, but it's silver. They're pretty rare."

"Cool."

"I just think it's time…I think you're old enough to know that story."

"Okay. Cool story. Does Dad remember? Since he got knocked out?"

Megan shook her head. "No, Dad doesn't remember. But he's got a lot of other stories about Uncle Mark being brave though. More than I have. But you can see why we're so close with him."

"Yeah, totally. I didn't know that."

Megan took one more careful breath, choosing her next words with trepidation.

"If Uncle Mark hadn't picked up Dad and fought off the bad guys, we might not even be a family. I personally think that if it weren't for Uncle Mark, you wouldn't be here, mister. So I'm…really, really grateful to him, because…here you are!"

Marky nodded. "Is that why you guys named me after him?"

Megan smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. I just…I just want you to know that he's a good man. That you can trust him, and you can talk to him about anything you want."

"Okay." Marky took another big bite of jerky. Megan took another bite, and they chewed in silence for a moment before she made her final decision.

"Uncle Mark told me to give this to you."

She reached into her purse and slid the paperback across the table. He picked it up and looked at it, clearly interested in the artifact.

He squinted at the worn, cheap cover. "It's kinda old."

"It is old. He had it when he was your age, and he thought you might like it."

"What's it about?"

"It's about fantasy stuff. Knights and ladies and magic and adventures, all that jazz. But all the characters are animals."

"Sounds lame."

Megan smiled. "Well, give it a chance. See if you like it."

"Okay."

"Now go tell Dad goodnight and get up to bed, mister. It's about your bedtime."

"Okay."

Marky stood up from the table and planted a jerky-flavored kiss on his mom's cheek. He then sauntered toward the basement door, looking at the back of the paperback as he disappeared down the stairs.

Megan smiled after him with a warm–but unsettled–heart.

* * *

"Hey baby! How's Buenos Aires?"

Jordan playfully rolled the "r" in "Aires" to spice up the greeting.

David laughed. "Pretty good, I think. I just got here, so, I've only seen the airport and the hotel."

"Is it pretty?"

"Well, it's dark. So I haven't seen much. I'll tell you in the morning."

Jordan frowned sympathetically. "You know honey, sometimes I get a little jealous of your globetrotting, but whenever we talk, it sounds like you're just in hotel rooms and port offices."

"Yeah, that's pretty much it," David admitted. "Maybe after I do a few rounds and know the territory, a few years down the road, I can make time for some sightseeing. Who knows?"

"That would be nice. Maybe I can come with you sometimes?"

"Duh-doy!" David laughed. "Anytime you want to come, baby, Arne was pretty clear on that. You can hop along whenever. And you can do anything you want."

"Wish I wasn't so busy with my school stuff…" Jordan pouted.

"Well, when you finish you can totally come along…maybe in the summer after you graduate?"

"Yeah!" Jordan responded enthusiastically. "I'd love that. We can travel the world together…"

"Solve mysteries, fight crime…"

"And bang in every time zone."

David chortled. "Haven't heard that one. Is that a goal of yours?"

"No. At least it wasn't before. But I think it is now." Jordan cocked a grin. "Is there a club for that? Like the mile high club, but for time zones?"

"If there is, we could be founding members. We'd have to name it ourselves."

"Interesting. I'm game to try if you are. Mister Stark…"

David laughed again. "Yeah, totally. I mean…I get to have sex with the hottest woman alive a guaranteed 24 times. Who would say no to that?"

"I don't know. Maybe women…"

"Not all women…"

"That is true…gay men then?"

"Baby, please. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Naked? No man would say no. Nobody's that gay."

Jordan laughed out loud, smiling widely at the game, but the banter soon seemed to run its course.

David broke the silence after a brief pause.

"How was church?"

"Good. I got another solo. Schubert's Ave Maria. Classic."

"Really? That's a really pretty song. I'm sorry I missed that."

"Me too…" Jordan admitted. "I really miss you when I sing in church. I wish I could just sing for you, and everyone else can listen."

David sighed. "Well, not much we can do about that for a little while. Still, I'm happy for you–seems like you're getting really good these days."

"Mrs. Dolly thinks I could go pro. I don't really know what that means…I guess singing professionally in churches?"

"They have those, I think. Especially in some of the bigger, richer churches."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know, I think that would suck all the fun out of it."

"Yeah, I could see that. But you're having fun with it now, right?"

"Oh yeah…" Jordan hastened to clarify. "I'm actually really glad to have a hobby to keep me from going all dissertation-crazy. It helps clear my head."

"Yeah, I could see that. That's great, baby."

"I have trouble keeping my head clear, sometimes." Jordan admitted, the tone of her voice falling.

"Well, that's what you get from being so smart. With all of those books running around the inside of your skull. It's gotta be a traffic jam in there sometimes."

"Yeah…" Jordan snuffed out a small laugh. "But…"

David waited for her to go on. She seemed hesitant to go on.

"It's not just dissertation stuff though, honey. I just feel like my head's all packed with fog sometimes. And I get frustrated, and I feel like I don't know who I really am. You know?"

"I'm not sure I do," David replied, furrowing his brow into the phone.

She puffed out a breath in frustration before continuing.

"Don't you ever feel like you might actually be two people? And that one of you is the good one but the other one likes to mess up your life and get in the way?"

"Like the angel and the devil on your shoulder? That kind of thing?"

"Kind of, yeah…" Jordan confessed. "I mean, I think that's the way I would have described it growing up in Sunday School. And I guess I still kind of think that's how to describe it, but I'm not totally convinced it's like a good-and-evil kind of thing. Like, instead of a good-and-evil thing, maybe it's like a higher-goals and lower-desires thing. Like, one part of my brain wants to do my dissertation, think great thoughts, build a stable life, that kind of stuff. But the other…"

"Wants to sit on the couch and eat chips?"

"Yeah…" Jordan replied. "Or sometimes it's not lazy–it's like, I want to just go out and buy a whole new wardrobe or something when I don't actually need new clothes. Or sometimes I want to just jump your bones and ride you dick all day long. You know?"

"Well, you should never resist that last inclination…" David smiled. "Never ever."

Jordan grinned. "I thought you'd like that. But even when you're not here…I mean…you know what the dancing girl means…"

David's cheeks began to heat.

"I get really flustered, baby. And I don't quite know how to deal with it sometimes. And…please don't think I'm full-on crazy here…it's almost like there's this other voice that's literally calling out to me. And she won't leave me alone until I…you know…"

"Is it an actual voice? Like a person?"

"I mean, it's definitely my voice. It's definitely my own inner voice, but just like…one that stands in a different place than my regular inner voice does. Am I crazy?"

"I don't think so. But you're the almost Ph.D psychologist, honey. What do you think?"

"I don't know. I just feel like I should find a way to fix the split. Like, I could make some life change where every part of my life falls into a neat little lane, and I can visit all the lanes when I need to, and I'll be super efficient and get everything done. Like…here's the box for my teaching, a box for my research, one for my church stuff, one for my family, one for my relationship with you, one for friends, one for sex…and each box gets its own space in my life, and when I'm done with it, I put it back and move onto the next one. Everything's perfectly divided and set in its own space, and I don't feel like I'm two people anymore."

David paused before responding. "It sounds like you want a logistics expert to organize your life."

Jordan laughed. "I'd love that, baby. And I'd love it if you did it. But it's not that I don't know how to store all the little boxes. That's not the problem. The problem is that there aren't boxes, and it seems like all the things kind of run together in a mash, and I can't control it. My body, my mind…they go where they go when they want to go there, and there doesn't seem to be a whole heck of a lot I can do about organizing it."

"That sounds really frustrating. Especially to me–but only because I'm obsessed with organizing my life. And everyone else's."

"I don't know, baby." Jordan opined. "Maybe it is the whole Neo-Platonic/Christian spirit/flesh duality. Like my mind/spirit is organized and aimed at the higher, but my body has its own kind of muddled, selfish thing going on."

"What kind of thing?"

"You know, like bodily needs. And I know you know I hate that word. But I think I hate it because it's kind of accurate. Like, if I don't run at least 4 times a week, I get really tense and frustrated really easily. And since we've been married, I've noticed the same thing about sex…like if I don't get enough sexy time, it throws me off for a while. Like…for days, sometimes. It's really annoying. It's like there's this constant annoying hum in the background when I'm trying to focus, and it's really hard to concentrate."

David was silent for a moment, teetering on a knife edge. "I know you've been…uh…texting some of that to me lately. When you take care of things yourself. Has that helped, um, organize that part of your life?"

Jordan blushed. "Organize? No. But it does take the edge off. And it also helps me feel close to you, which makes it better, and makes the good feeling last longer after I'm done. And I like that we're doing that–that I check in. It's not as good as when we're actually together physically. But it's better than just…you know…by myself in the dark…

David shifted his weight, giving his erection room to move in his pants.

"Well…I like it too, Jo. I get really, really excited when I know you're excited."

Jordan snickered. "I know you do, silly. I like that, too."

David hesitated again, then took a deep breath.

"I noticed when you mentioned your boxes, that the one box was for me...our relationship, and another box was for sex."

Now it was Jordan's turn to pause. "Yeah, I guess I did say that."

David didn't know where to go. "I just…noticed that."

"Yeah…" Jordan responded uncomfortably. "Good catch, baby. I mean, I do mean sex with you…I just mean…"

"That the idea of our relationship is kind of its own thing. Like our marriage as a whole…apart from our sex life. That makes sense."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's it. I mean…I just phrased it awkwardly."

"No, I get it." David cleared his throat.

Another pause. Then,

"Jordan?"

"Yeah?"

He cleared his throat into the phone again.

"I'm okay with your sex life having its own box."

Jordan paused for an uncomfortably long time before answering timidly.

"Okay…"

[Guhunkadorn]

Damn......brilliant chapter.

[nnjcpl2002]

Okay!!

[Oneillfranko]

Just love this story: the pace, the character development, the interwoven tales…

[Shauncuckold]

I always look forward to the next chapter. Thank you for sharing your writing genius!!

Mr. Swan

[MustBeDenied2]

I try to stretch it out and only read one section per day. I fail every time.

Such a great story and I'm so grateful to you, Crushing, for sharing your gift with us.

MBD

[nnjcpl2002]

Dear Crushing,
Wonderful writing and story. You present some really complex personalities and inner human conflicts, including the cuckolding desire among some husbands.
I really would love to know what proportion of men are drawn to this.

We eagerly await your next excellent installment. Thanks again.

[Crushing]

Hey all,

Thanks for the notes of encouragement, I appreciate them! Sorry for the delay, life gets crazy, you know how it is. I have the next chapter largely drafted, I've got one more section to finish and then I'll edit the chapter and post it. I'm shooting to have it up Thursday sometime, so look for it then.

Thanks again, and glad you're enjoying the serial. I'm having fun developing it, and I'm getting attached to the characters, which is fun for me. Keep the comments coming, I always appreciate the feedback.

[Peacemiller]

I've absolutely enjoyed the first handful of chapters I've read. The quality (grammar, style, dialogue) is everything I look for when investing into a story.

Crushing, any general estimate when the whole story will be finished? (Sorry if it's been asked before! I'm the type of reader that prefers to binge in as few sittings as possible.)

[Jacko]

@Crushing,

Thanks for the update!
Personally, I don't have a problem at all with you taking as much time as you need to complete chapters to your satisfaction.
Especially as I came down with Covid this week and my brain's not in a place to devour and enjoy if you had posted already

Thanks for all your efforts!